


Snippets for the Taking

by NightAuthor



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Danny Phantom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Xander Harris, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, F/M, Gen, Hurt Danny, Hyena Xander Harris, Neglectful Fentons, The Fentons are Not Good Parents, Xander Harris-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 92,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightAuthor/pseuds/NightAuthor
Summary: Like it says on the tin, these are snippets I've written that I don't have the time, energy, or inspiration to continue right now. Blanket permission to take them and go off if you want, as long as you link back where you got the inspiration, and I reserve the right to write them myself even if someone else already has. Anyway, hope you like them!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Kíli, Bilbo Baggins/Fíli, Danny Fenton & James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Danny Fenton & Jazz Fenton, Danny Fenton & Mr. Lancer, Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley & Sam Manson, Elyan & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Elyan & Gwen (Merlin), Elyan & Merlin (Merlin), Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Gaius & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Leon & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Rupert Giles & Xander Harris & Willow Rosenberg & Buffy Summers, Xander Harris & Buffy Summers, Xander Harris & Willow Rosenberg
Comments: 52
Kudos: 87





	1. Yer a Hostage, Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I seriously love fem!Merlin. And normal Merlin. And pretty much everything else about that show.

Gwen stirred slowly, the pounding in her head distracting her at first from the realization that she had absolutely no idea where she was.

She bolted upright—or tried to; the headache intensified and she had to slow—and looked around her, heart pounding.

She—no, they—were in a plain, dirty tent that reminded her of nothing so much as when she and Morgana were kidnapped two years earlier. Her hands and feet were shackled, loosely enough to allow her to move but not enough to allow any escape attempt, and the shackles were then fastened to the post in her corner of the room. Elyan was shackled to the same post, and was just beginning to stir as the sun hit his eyes through the unfastened opening to her left.

Arthur was shackled to the back post on her side of the tent—where he would easily be seen from outside, she realized—and wore twice the chains as she and Elyan did. Morgana was shackled both to the post in the center of the tent and to the post on the other side of the ‘door’ as Gwen and Elyan, and wore a thin silver band on her left wrist in addition to the chains they all bore. Merlin was chained directly to the center post, with extra chains wrapped tightly enough around her torso to be sitting up despite clearly still being unconscious, and if Gwen leaned to the side, she thought she could see a silver band on her left wrist to match Morgana’s.

The tent was large enough that Gwen didn’t think any of them would be able to reach the others, other than her and Elyan.

But why were they there? The last she remembered, they were all riding back to Camelot after freeing Elyan from Fyrien. Something must have happened, but what? And who? And why was Merlin, of all people, being treated as though she were a greater threat than Arthur?

For Morgana to be treated that way, though, did make a sick sort of sense, no matter how Gwen wanted it not to.

One by one, the others woke—Merlin last of all—and had the same conversation again and again: Why are we here? I don’t know. Who took us? I don’t know. Where are we? I don’t know. What in the bloody blazes is going on? I don’t know.

Confusingly, neither Merlin nor Morgana seemed puzzled by the silver shackles on their wrists, only alarmed, and neither brought it up.

Looking at Morgana’s—as it was easier to see from her angle—Gwen noticed that it seemed to be engraved, though she couldn’t see any detail. “My Lady, what is th—”

A man stepped into the tent, startling her into falling silent. The angle of the light gave him a reddish halo, though the light made it impossible to see any hair color more specific than ‘lightish’. Despite the shadows obscuring the color of his eyes, there was a coldness there as he looked at them that gave Gwen chills, especially as he lingered on Merlin; his face was lined, but the easy way he moved made her think that he was a bit younger than her father had been.

Old enough to be dangerous, young enough to put it to effective use.

Merlin stared back at him, eyes wide and scared; knowing her, Gwen didn’t doubt she would have spoken if Arthur hadn’t, first. “Whoever you are, you will face the full might of Camelot for th—”

“The full might?” The question was quiet, but the menace in it was easily heard; he continued quickly, still watching Merlin. “I don’t think so. Not with your deadliest weapon taken out of the picture.”

Merlin quirked a brow, but her eyes were still afraid. “You obviously haven’t seen them fight.”

Morgana lifted her chin with a sneer; the light caught in her eyes for an instant, and Gwen smothered a shudder at the memory of fire seen through a screen. “The King will have no mercy for you. Release us now and perhaps you’ll live.”

The man let out a mirthless laugh. “But will the King have less mercy than your sister?”

Morgana jerked, eyes flying wide; Merlin’s eyes widened, as well, but only fractionally. Gwen was just confused; Morgana didn’t have a sister. A glance at Elyan and Arthur showed that they had no more idea who he was talking about than she did. And what had he meant, ‘deadliest weapon’? Arthur?

Shaking his head, the man swept his eyes over the rest of them, and raised his voice enough to fill the tent. “Your benefactors will be contacted shortly. Until your ransoms are delivered, the three of you will remain here.”

Gwen frowned. Three?

Almost as though he’d heard her, the man glanced over at her, his eyes flicking between her and Elyan as he continued. “As the three of you are too valuable alive, nothing you do will result in your being punished. Instead, your punishments will be dealt in full to the hostages. Attempts to fight me or any of my men will result in one or both of them being given ten lashes. Attempts to kill me or any of my men will result in the loss of a finger, one finger for each death. Attempts to escape will result in thirty lashes for both hostages.”

With a jolt, Gwen realized that she and Elyan were the ‘hostages’ he was referring to; she felt abruptly light-headed, and leaned heavily on Elyan as he swore in a language she’d never heard before.

Mildly, the man admonished, “Such coarseness. I don’t have the fluency in Gallic to know exactly what you just said about my mother, but I have several men in my company who would, and would undoubtably relieve you of your tongue for such insult. Be aware of that before you curse at anyone else here. And lastly, Your Highnesses, any successful escape attempt will result in the death of one hostage. Before you make any plans to escape intentionally, Lady Morgana, know that none of your actions will result in action against your maidservant.”

A flicker of anger crossed Morgana’s face, quickly replaced by confusion. “How could you think I’d ever hurt Gwen?”

Ice reentered the man’s expression as he turned away from Gwen to face Morgana again; Gwen kept her eyes on Morgana’s face as he spoke. “There’s very little I think you incapable of, Lady Morgana. Perhaps a year or two ago you wouldn’t have crossed that line, but now? I’d rather fall on my own sword than put an ounce of faith in you.”

Morgana’s eyes widened a fraction at the allusion to her disappearance, but at his last words, narrowed into a glare so hateful that Gwen found herself leaning back, despite not being the target of it.

But as much as it hurt to admit, he was right. Ever since she’d come back to Camelot, Morgana had been colder, and now that Gwen knew that she had magic…

If there’d been anyone but Elyan at stake, she never would have brought Morgana to rescue him.

But Arthur disagreed. “How dare you make such insult to her?! Apologize!”

The man laughed, turning to Arthur. “I would no sooner apologize to her than I would stand in the way of your destiny, King.”

Arthur’s glare darkened. “My father is King of Camelot.”

“Yes,” the man agreed, “but you’re King of Albion, or will be, and that title has always been yours. The Once and Future King.” Shaking his head, he clucked his tongue in mock-disappointment. “There are many, myself included, who thought you’d already be on the throne by now. But that’s not your doing, is it?”

Despite her confusion, Gwen followed the man’s eyes as he looked back at Merlin; belatedly, she realized that the fear in Merlin’s eyes had strengthened, and she was watching the man as unblinkingly as he was her.

Slowly, he crouched down to her level, expression neutral. “Did you know there are druids who’ve gotten quite impatient for Albion’s rise? Some of them, such as Iseldir, they have great faith in destiny, they say patience is all that’s needed, they see every day as progress toward the time of the Once and Future King. But, of course, you haven’t been doing much to encourage them, have you?”

Gwen shared a bewildered glance with Elyan and Arthur; what on Earth was he saying and why was he putting so much emphasis on Merlin’s involvement?

“Such as when you sent that one,” he looked pointedly at Morgana before facing Merlin again, “to Aglain’s camp.”

Merlin inhaled sharply, at almost the same moment that Morgana did; Gwen looked slowly between them, a sick suspicion forming in her gut.

“A year and a half ago, I think. Perhaps a bit more. I wouldn’t know the exact date, I wasn’t there, but there are two druids in my camp at the moment who were. A man and his daughter. They saw you enter the camp that day. They know you led the soldiers there.”

“I—” Merlin cut herself off almost before she’d begun to speak, pressing her lips together until they were bloodless white.

“What are you talking about? We followed Morgana’s kidnappers there, not Merlin!”

Gwen didn’t look at Arthur as he spoke, and she saw the guilt on Merlin’s face.

The man kept his eyes on Merlin as he responded to Arthur. “Unfortunately, King, you’re wrong. There were never any kidnappers. The Lady Morgana went to the druids of her own free will, and so did you.” Eyes shining, Merlin swallowed thickly; Morgana was staring at her from the other side of the tent, hate in her eyes. “Only a handful of them survived, you know. A few children, a dozen or so adults, out of close to a hundred people. As I said, two of them, a man and his daughter, they’re in my camp now. But his wife isn’t. Do you know why?”

Merlin just stared at him, but her breathing was ragged.

“They watched her die because of you. They thought to go to Elmet, at first, as a few other survivors did, but the curse is still active. And they learned who you are there. And they realized that not only haven’t you broken the curse on your own kingdom, you haven’t made any noticeable progress toward Albion, either. Obviously, they aren’t very happy with you, and they found quite a few others who agree with them. And all of them found me.

“Now, I’m no fool. I have no intention of standing in the way of destiny; I know what happens to people who do. Which is why I give you my word that you, your nemesis, and your king, will all walk away from this unscathed.”

The man stood to his full height and stepped back from Merlin, addressing them all again. “I am Claudas. That name means nothing outside of this camp, so you won’t be able to track me down with it, King. My sons, Dorin and Claudin, are directly under me. You will obey their orders as you would mine. Now, the hostages will be manacled at all times, of course, and connected to a guard when they leave this tent, but if you can adequately convince me you will abide by the rules I have told you, you may go largely unfettered. Give me a binding oath, on whatever you hold most dear, that you will not attempt—or succeed—to harm anyone in this camp, to escape, or to leave or send any messages outside the camp. If I am convinced that you will keep your word, your shackles will be removed.”

For a moment, there was silence in the tent. For her part, Gwen couldn’t imagine that he was actually telling the truth.

Claudas’ expression darkened. “Very well. Remember that you’ve only brought this on yourselves.”

He stepped out of the tent, and the fabric fell shut with far too little fanfare for the dread he left behind.

Gwen exchanged a worried glance with Elyan, her eyes falling to Arthur naturally. He held her eyes, fear and anger warring in his. Tearing her gaze from him, she looked to Merlin, but Merlin wasn’t even looking in her direction. She was staring at the entrance to the tent, brow furrowed, and didn’t even seem to be aware of the glare Morgana was directing toward her.

Morgana opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, men began streaming into the tent.


	2. Ghost Force is Best Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because first of all, the world needs more Airmen. And secondly, Danny deserves more than being stuck in Amity forever. Also, Rhodey is awesome.

Rhodey kept his expression carefully neutral as he waited for an answer at the door, hands clasped behind his back. The house was tiny, paint faded and peeling, but the yard had been weeded recently and some of the planks in the wooden fence were noticeably newer than the rest. Even if he hadn’t known that the two residents had only lived there for a handful of months, he’d have guessed.

There were no windows in the door, not even a peephole. Granted, given what he had come to know since initially being briefed several days previous, at least one of the residents wouldn’t need anything like a peephole. Regardless, it meant that he couldn’t see his reflection, couldn’t check how his service coat laid on his shoulders, whether his trousers had wrinkled in the car. After so many years of wearing it, he didn’t really need to, but it was still habit.

He was a Major in the United States Air Force, and he was representing his service and his country.

The door opened abruptly, but after eighteen years of knowing Tony, almost nothing phased him. Not outwardly, at least.

The girl inside—he recognized her from the briefing—looked at him wide-eyed. Smiling, he nodded to her. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is—”

“Major James Rhodes, US Air Force,” she blurted. An instant later, she clapped her hand over her mouth, cheeks faintly red over her hand.

Fighting not to outright grin—or worse, laugh—at the look on her face, he said mildly, “That saves me an introduction, at least. May I come in?”

Hand lowering, her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Would you mind telling me why you’re here?”

He could almost see her thinking; he’d never met someone who reminded him so vividly of Tony before. But Tony usually only had that look when he was working on an invention; as good as he was with people, he couldn’t make them make sense like they were machines. But he’d had a feeling she would be more inclined toward the ‘squishy stuff’, as Tony called it. “That’s a complicated question, Miss Fenton. The short answer is that the USAF would be very interested in seeing you serve your country more directly than you already have been.”

If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he might have missed her reaction. But at his words, her eyes widened the barest fraction before narrowing a bit more than they had been. Taking a deliberate breath, she pulled the door further open and waved him inside.

He stepped in with another smile, removing his flight cap automatically as he walked under cover and tucking it in his belt. The first room was a combination of a living and dining room, most of the available space taken up by a smallish table by the window, two chairs set at it and listing slightly, as at least one leg on each was splintered and shorter than the others. A tiny, threadbare armchair was in the far corner, and the kitchen door stood opposite it.

He waited for her to move into the room proper, then sat at the nearest chair. “I’d like to begin by assuring you that neither the US military nor government are seeking any action against you.”

She gave him a skeptical look, but he saw how her shoulders eased a bit. “I think we’d better clarify exactly what I’m not being prosecuted for.” Quirking a brow, she sat opposite him. “I’d hate to think we had our signals crossed.”

This time, he didn’t try to fight the tiny smirk at the further proof she was what they needed. “Of course. Specifically, you are not being held accountable for any actions taken by someone who, by all logical and reasonable thinking, is not you: Danny Phantom.” By her total lack of surprise, he took it that she’d already known full well that he knew who she was; she still tensed almost imperceptibly, though. “Any and all charges of vigilantism that may possibly be leveled at Miss Phantom, should she ever surrender herself to the authorities, would almost certainly be dismissed, on grounds that neither local, state, nor federal authorities have any capability to deal with the threats she combats on a regular basis. Though it has not escaped our attention that said ‘regular basis’ has gotten somewhat less frequent in the last year.”

She looked almost relaxed now, but she was still watching him warily, eyes narrowed and unblinking. That was creepy, actually; he didn’t think she’d blinked once since she sat down.

Still, he continued, “Should it come to light that Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom are the same person, the charges would still likely be dismissed, especially considering the volunteer work you’ve done in the wake of some of Miss Phantom’s more… violent altercations.”

That got a reaction; she flushed a bit, the corners of her mouth dipping in a tiny grimace.

“Would I be correct in thinking that those occasions did not go as you wanted them to?”

She still only stared at him, still not blinking, for a long moment. Finally, she shook her head, swallowing heavily. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me. Usually they don’t. If they do, I try and fix it; I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

Shaking his own head, he smiled a bit, hoping to set her at ease. “Neither do I nor does the US government or military, Miss Fenton. In fact, it demonstrates a strength of character that I and many of my colleagues believe could be of tremendous use to the United States.”

For the first time in far, far too long to be natural, she blinked, brows drawing together in honest incredulity. “This is a recruitment visit? Seriously?”

Letting himself smirk, he countered, “Well, we aren’t in the habit of abducting American citizens off the street.”

Brows snapping into a glare, she snapped, “Tell the GIW that.”

Now he frowned. “Who?”

“The Guys in White? They’re government agents, and they’ve been harassing me for more than two years.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I haven’t been made aware of any agency by that name.”

Her eyes narrowed further, but slowly, the suspicion in her face eased away. “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist somewhere out of your paygrade.”

He tipped his head slightly, conceding the point, but he couldn’t quite wipe away his frown. “When—”

A car door closing outside caught his attention, a handful of seconds before the front door opened. He stood reflexively, looking toward the entrance, and Miss Fenton snorted softly. “This is going to be good.”

A red-headed young man entered barely an instant after she spoke, the brother the briefing had mentioned. As he froze, Rhodey took a moment to compare him to his sister. He was taller, but not broad; the briefing had only really noted that he existed and he had custody of his sister, but Rhodey guessed that he was some sort of academic, with how slim his build was. His eyes were as light as hers, though, and there was some resemblance in their features, a delicate sort of look that made him seem fragile and his sister seem unearthly.

His eyes narrowed much as his sister’s had, flicking quickly over Rhodey. “Can I ask who you are and why you’re in our house?”

He looked to Miss Fenton as he spoke, only briefly, but it was enough that Rhodey wasn’t surprised when Miss Fenton answered for him. “It’s fine, Jax, I let him in.”

The brother—Jax, apparently, although Rhodey thought the briefing had referred to him as something else—frowned, but some of the tension left him. Clearly, he trusted her judgment implicitly. Neither smiling nor frowning, Rhodey held out his hand. “Major James Rhodes, USAF.”

A tiny huff left Mr. Fenton, but he still shook Rhodey’s hand, firmly and for as little time as he could get away with. “That explains a lot. She’s a fan.”

A smile flitted over his face; Rhodey glanced behind him to see that Miss Fenton was glaring at her brother, cheeks faintly pink.

Shaking his head, Mr. Fenton disappeared into the kitchen for a few moments; Rhodey heard water running, and sat again. “Would you like a drink?”

Letting himself smile a little at the stiff courtesy, he called back, “Water, please.”

Miss Fenton shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “Sorry. I don’t have people over often.”

Rhodey only shook his head. “It’s nothing to apologize for. I came here on business, after all.”

Mr. Fenton emerged with two glasses of water and set one in front of Rhodey with a frown. “What business?”

He looked to his sister again before sitting in the armchair behind her; she moved her chair a bit so that it wouldn’t be difficult for her to look back at him, but kept her eyes on Rhodey. “Major Rhodes is apparently here to recruit me for the Air Force.”

Mr. Fenton’s brows slammed down; Rhodey forestalled what seemed the most likely argument. “I have no affiliation with the GIW, nor am I aware that any such agency exists.”

Hostility easing into flagrant suspicion again, he kept glaring. “So you say.”

Miss Fenton huffed quietly. “It’s not like they’re going to be going around with megaphones, Jax.”

“They’re in the government, Danny, don’t be naïve.”

Rolling her eyes, she tossed back airily, “Need to know is a thing, dude. Even most people in the government don’t. You really think every pencil pusher at the DMV knows ghosts are real?”

Throwing an exasperated look at the back of her head, Mr. Fenton pointed out icily, “He’s not a pencil pusher. He’s military, and high-ranking.”

“O-3 isn’t that high up.”

“Still.”

“And need to know is separate from rank, anyway.”

Feeling as though they’d forget he was in the room entirely in another moment, Rhodey cut in, “Regardless of what I’m not aware of, this offer comes from the Secretary of the Air Force. Even another agency won’t be able to do anything without drawing a good amount of attention to itself.”

“Offer?” Mr. Fenton scoffed harshly. “I guess yours doesn’t come with vivisections.”

Horrified, Rhodey couldn’t keep from jerking back, eyes flying wide, mouth falling open; Miss Fenton snapped at her brother at the same moment, but didn’t seem surprised.

Mr. Fenton, though, did, his brows rising as he watched Rhodey closely. “Wow. Guess it doesn’t.”

Miss Fenton rolled her eyes again, jaw clenched. “Yeah, big shock, Sherlock: if the military wanted me for a lab rat, they’d have already nabbed, gagged, and bagged me.”

Still feeling cold, Rhodey looked to her, the hair on the back of his neck raising to see the tension she was trying to hide. “You’re serious. That’s what you think the GIW will do to you.”

She met his eyes too evenly, too soberly, too calmly for a teenager discussing her own potential inhumane torture. “They’ve made it pretty clear, yeah. But apparently, they don’t have the Air Force’s resources, or else they’d have been the ones showing up on our doorstep.”

Her eyes were too old, to Rhodey’s eyes. She looked… well, she looked exactly like her words implied: like she’d been living with a gun to her head for at least two years, and been going about her normal life, for the most part.

With difficulty, he pulled himself together. “I think I’d better explain in more detail, now that you’re both here.”

Miss Fenton frowned. “You were waiting for Jax?”

Rhodey bobbed his head to the side. “Somewhat. He is your legal guardian.”

Eyes cutting to the side for an instant, she accepted that with a nod. “Alright. So what details couldn’t you go into before?”

“And what did you go over before I got here?”

“Just that they know I’m Phantom and they aren’t going to prosecute me for being a vigilante, other than what you already heard.”

Mr. Fenton blinked at her, then nodded. “Alright. You were saying?”

Taking a sip of water, Rhodey thought over the briefing again, then what he’d observed about the two siblings. He wouldn’t need to repeat himself too much, he decided. “As I said, the USAF is interested in seeing you serve your country more directly than you have been. Your actions, both as Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom, show a strength of character and a sense of patriotism that is, unfortunately, growing more and more rare. If those qualities were all you had to offer, we would still be very interested in you. But the fact of the matter is, you are also in possession of extraordinary abilities, talents, and skills.”

Eyes narrowed, she tilted her head. “How do you know? I think I’d have noticed if military spies were following me around all the time.”

At that, he let himself smirk, just slightly. “We didn’t need to. By the way, you might want to tell your friend, Mr. Foley, that he’ll need better security if he’s going to hack into government servers.”

Naked fear crossed her face, and he raised his hands slightly, voice low and even. “He isn’t under arrest. Actually, there should be another officer visiting him with a similar recruitment offer right now.” Visibly skeptical, she pulled out a phone not too dissimilar from Tony’s and typed rapidly. Mildly, he added, “I was going to stop by after I finished here; his servers would seem to indicate he’d be more impressed by a visit by Tony Stark’s friend than just another Air Force officer.”

She snorted softly, relaxing as her phone buzzed and she read the screen, then put the phone away again. “You’ve definitely got that right. His life ambition’s to work for SI.”

Raising a brow, Rhodey filed that away; maybe he could have Tony consider offering him an internship if he didn’t want to serve. “Setting that aside, he keeps very detailed records, on you, your allies, and your enemies. We had to verify that the information was correct, of course, but clearly, it is. Which makes you a valuable ally.

“If I may be frank, Miss Fenton, I can count the number of men I would follow into the sorts of battles you’ve conducted on my hands, and the number of those I would expect to emerge with few to no casualties, on one hand. You’ve displayed a remarkable talent for leadership and strategy. Combined with your dedication to the safety and wellness of your fellow citizens, it paints an impressive picture. With training and mentorship, you could be one of the greatest military commanders in US history.

“Of course, your abilities do come into consideration. Based on Mr. Foley’s evaluations, you’re continuing to develop new abilities, and those you already have are strengthening. Aside from some somewhat immature hijinks, you’ve already shown yourself to be capable of discipline and self-control. However, you haven’t had access to any real, structured training. The offer on the table is immediate induction into the United States Air Force. If you accept, and if Mr. Fenton gives his consent as guardian, since you’re still a minor, you’ll go through BMT with other recruits, then physical and psychological screening more tailored to your specific capabilities, then be admitted to the USAF Academy for officer training. We would prefer that you major—or at least minor—in military strategy, but you would be free to choose any course you like.”

She’d straightened as he spoke, leaning forward as she gave him her full attention, though he could tell she was considering his words as he spoke. How quickly her first question came only confirmed that. “What kind of courses are there? Four-year? STEM?”

He had to smile at that. “Yes and yes, although there are courses available in law, economics, and social sciences and humanities, as well. I’m guessing you’re interested in the mechanical engineering course, though.”

At that, she blinked. “Yeah, but how…”

“According to Mr. Foley’s records, you’ve rebuilt, repaired, and sabotaged your parents’ equipment on multiple occasions, and prior to beginning high school, you consistently achieved top grades in math and related sciences.”

Pinking faintly, she looked away.

Smiling openly now, he held up his left hand, showing the USAFA ring there. “Aeronautical engineering courses are also a possibility. And, considering what Mr. Foley documented about your energy levels, if you want to apply yourself fully, it’s possible that you could graduate in less than four years.”

Miss Fenton seemed lost in thought; Mr. Fenton blinked at him. “That’s allowed?”

Rhodey nodded, taking another sip of water. “I graduated in three. It’s hard, harder than any of the physical training you’ll go through, but I think you could do it.”

Her gaze snapped to his then, something fragile about it, despite the fact that she wasn’t blinking again. “You mentioned extra psychological screening.”

He nodded. “With your abilities, if you were to get out of control, people could die. We would require that you be evaluated regularly, and be completely honest if you begin to notice any aberrant behavior or thinking.”

He half expected them to protest that, but both of them nodded—almost in unison—and moved on. “What would I be expected to do after graduating?”

“You would be assigned a duty, likely something without too much responsibility at first, then you would be promoted and assigned upward as you proved capable.”

Her brow furrowed, but he could see something in her face, nothing he could put a finger on, but he had a good feeling about it. “What about Amity Park? Like you said, I don’t have to step in as often anymore, but I still do, now and then.”

That might need a bit of explanation. “Are you aware of how the military grants leave?” She shook her head; now Mr. Fenton was the one deep in thought. “One of the categories involved is emergency leave. That’s normally reserved for the death of an immediate family member, but in your case, we would be prepared to allow you leave when something dire came up here. You also wouldn’t be on duty 24/7. More than a few of the incidents recorded by Mr. Foley were settled in a matter of minutes, or under two hours, at least. Depending on the situation, you would be allowed to step out to deal with small issues such as that so long as you make sure to notify someone in your chain of command and keep them informed if it becomes necessary to stay out into your duty hours.”

“Would everyone know about me?”

“No, you would have two chains of command. One—or more, if you’re stationed at a joint service base—that would be comparable to any other officer’s, and one that would be much smaller, only consisting of those who are aware of your abilities.”

Her eyes seemed to focus on him, suddenly, and he had to fight not to react; it felt like being on national television, or briefing the President. “Would you be one of them?”

“Possibly. It would depend on what AFSC you’re assigned, what duties you have, where I’m assigned, and a few other variables. But while you’re in USAFA, yes.”

Outwardly, at least, she didn’t react, and he couldn’t tell whether that was a positive or negative in her eyes.

Mr. Fenton spoke up, leaning forward challengingly, whether he realized it or not. “Shouldn’t her age be a consideration here? She’s only seventeen; isn’t that too young for any kind of Academy?”

Rhodey shrugged. “I was seventeen. Besides which, according to our records, your birthday is in December, correct?” Once she nodded, he looked back to Mr. Fenton. “After BMT and the planned evaluations, she’ll be eighteen, or nearly. Besides which, the US military has recognized that some seventeen-year-olds are mature enough for this life for years; so long as you, as her legal guardian, agree to release her to the USAF, she has the right to join, even if she’d only turned seventeen yesterday.”

He opened his mouth to continue arguing, but Miss Fenton cut him off. “Could you give us a minute to discuss this?”

Seeing the sobriety in her eyes, he nodded easily. Whether she would agree or not, he didn’t think there was anything more to say. “As I said, I’d planned to join the officer speaking to Mr. Foley. If you want to give me your answer in person, I expect I’ll be there for the next several hours. Otherwise…” Pulling his card out of his jacket pocket, he laid it on the table as he stood. “You can reach me at that number.”

Making no move to take it, she nodded, standing to match him. “You’ll have an answer soon, I think.”

Stepping to the door, he nodded to both of them. “Miss Fenton. Mr. Fenton.”

Speaking with Mr. Foley went about as he’d expected, with more explanations than Miss Fenton had needed and significantly more excitement about his relationship with Tony than she’d shown. Leaving the house that evening, he didn’t know whether Mr. Foley would take the USAF’s offer, but he suspected that if he didn’t, he’d still be applying to SI for an internship in the near future. But there was none of the genius he was used to from Tony. Mr. Foley was intelligent, even brilliant when it came to computers or programming, but so was Rhodey; his specialty was engineering, not computers, but he knew enough to be able to keep up with Tony’s late-night ramblings. In a decade, maybe a few years, depending on how he applied himself, Mr. Foley would be Rhodey’s equal in intelligence and education, if not in rank, but he would never be Tony’s equal.

Rhodey was a little disappointed about that. Some of the programming in Mr. Foley’s systems was brilliant, the sort of thing Tony would have come up with at that age, but now he wondered if Mr. Foley had been the one to put it there.

His phone rang, and he stopped automatically on the sidewalk as he answered. “This is Major James Rhodes.”

“Major Rhodes, I hope you have papers with you, because I’m ready to sign up.”

Recognizing Miss Fenton’s voice, he restrained his smile with an effort. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ll bring them over in a few minutes.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Her voice was echoed, and he nearly fell over as she came into view just in front of him.

Hanging up, he replayed the last few seconds; she hadn’t popped into view, nor stepped forward as though she’d been behind some sort of shield. She’d faded in from the center out, so quickly that he might have missed it if he weren’t used to processing rapid movement.

She smiled, simple mischief in her eyes, and for a moment, she actually looked her age. “Sorry, but Jax and I’d both prefer some time to read over what, exactly, I’m signing before I actually do.”

Not bothering to hide his chuckle, he nodded at her. “Always a good move.” Crossing to the car, he pulled out the contract waiting there and held it out to her. “You know, that trick’ll come in handy in the field.”

“Pretty much already decided, Major Rhodes, you really don’t need to keep convincing me.”

“Not trying to convince you, just pointing it out. From what I’ve read, you can do things a lot more impressive than turn invisible. Don’t let that go to your head; sometimes the simple, little things are more effective than the big stuff.”

Eyes narrowing playfully, she tilted her head all the way to the side, which only made her look more like some kind of pixie. “Were you talking like you were earlier to seem more professional? Because this is much better.”

Grinning at her, he didn’t try to refute it. “It’s important to be professional in uniform.”

Snorting, she took the contract and glanced over it, then tucked it under her arm. Smile falling away, she looked soberly up at him again. “Why were you the one to come? You couldn’t have been the only one who could.”

“Would you have listened to anyone else?”

“Probably.”

Raising a brow, he accepted that and moved on. “You get used to a lot of craziness when you’re friends with Tony Stark, especially when you knew him when he was younger than you. Plus, after seeing him create an honest-to-God AI, I find it a little easier to believe the impossible than some.”

“That’s not that impossible.”

He leveled a flat look at her. “An actual AI? Not just lines of code and pre-programmed responses, but emotion and reason and personality? Trust me, that’s earth-shaking.”

Pinking, she nodded. “I’m sure it didn’t hurt that the Air Force is all about cyber security.”

At that, he grinned more widely than before. “Why do you think we made the offer so fast?”

She grinned back, then shook her head and stepped back. “I’ll have them signed in the morning, probably.”

“I can come to collect the contract at zero-seven.”

Shaking off the incredulous look on her face, she saluted insouciantly and walked past him. “See you tomorrow, Major.”

Deliberately, he turned around and got into the car. He rode to the hotel, then walked to the elevator, rode up to his floor, walked to his room, closed and locked the door behind him, and closed the curtains, and then, and only then, did he let himself laugh.

He wasn’t sure who was going to be more surprised, her when she had to deal with officers over her, or the military when they realized who they were dealing with.

Either way, this was going to be hilarious.

Danny read through the contract one last time, then set it down on the table. It took the others a moment to realize she was done; Tucker was doing something with his phone, as usual, and Jax and Sam were having their version of a Canadian stand-off: he was insistent that it wasn’t right to take a seat when there was a lady left standing, and she was insistent that she didn’t need any kind of medieval ‘chivalry’ like that.

Tucker had taken the armchair while they were arguing.

Now they were just staring each other down. Danny just looked at them for a few seconds, trying not to laugh at the situation. As far as she was concerned, if a guy offered her a seat, she was going to take it, and if he didn’t, she was fine standing.

Finally, she cleared her throat. They looked to her immediately, straightening up from the half-sulks they’d both slouched into. Swallowing, she looked between them all. “I really want this. But I can’t leave Amity Park to fend for itself.”

Surprisingly, Tucker was the first to shake his head. “You wouldn’t be, though. We can handle the little stuff, and you said that Major Rhodes said that you’d be able to come back for the big stuff.”

Sam nodded decisively. “This would be awesome for you. You could make a huge difference like that, even if the military sucks.”

Danny shot a half-glare at her, but didn’t say anything; they’d argued about that before, and she doubted that would stop when she joined up. If she joined up.

Jax was being too quiet, and she leaned over to catch his eye; wincing, he sighed. “I just want you to be safe. How sure can we be that they aren’t GIW?”

Tucker shook his head. “Major Rhodes has been in the news a ton of times with Tony Stark, and that was really him.”

“And you know he was telling the truth about not being GIW, Jax, you saw his reaction,” Danny pointed out. “I don’t think there’s anything risky about this, but if something huge happens here—”

“We’ll handle it.” Sam’s tone brooked no disagreement. “We’ve collected enough stuff over the last few years that we can take down the Box Ghost and anyone else stupid enough to come through, and if you ask people like Wulf and Walker and Ember and the Yetis to patrol on their side, that’ll cut down the risk even more.”

She did have a point; Ember hadn’t been a problem since Danny managed to convince her to just put out CDs, and she’d reached an agreement with Walker that she wouldn’t get in his way as long as he kept his Rules reasonable.

Truth be told, things had calmed way down in the last year. Most of the smarter ghosts, the ones like Johnny and Kitty, the Lunch Lady, even the Ghost Writer, had agreed not to cause trouble in exchange for being allowed to visit their world a couple times a week, with no hassling, no surveillance, no jumping down their throats. If Danny heard about something that sounded like their tricks, she went to them and asked, and she’d gotten pretty good at telling if people were telling her the truth, lately. It was easier with ghosts than humans, though.

There were still idiots, of course, and now and then someone got it into their head that they could cause trouble and not get caught, but she always did catch them, even if it took a little investigation to figure out who did what. And with her and Walker’s alliance, they’d worked out a system of terms and punishments according to how badly they messed things up: putting the power out or something meant they’d get a week or two in a cell, unless they touched the hospital or any other care facilities, and then it would be six months and menial labor in whatever flavor Walker felt like; getting people hurt, or making enough chaos that people were lucky not to get hurt, that meant a year’s complete isolation, then another three months in Dorothea’s cells.

How many individual punishments and caveats and details they’d worked out with Dorothea and Frostbite’s help still made Danny’s head spin, but it worked. Technus was finishing up his month in Walker’s cells, and Vortex was going to be in isolation for another eight months. Shadow had almost done some real damage, but Danny had managed to get through to Kitty and she’d helped her talk sense into Johnny.

It was a good system, and Danny thought it would keep working, at least from Clockwork’s little hints.

So she could trust them to take care of things, right?

A hand covered hers, and her head snapped up to meet Jax’s eyes as he smiled at her. He looked a little sad, but still. He looked proud. “You should go. Sam and Tucker are right, we can handle things. I just…” Sighing, he crouched down to her level, holding her eyes as his smile got a little sadder. “I’m just worried about you. But… But this will be good for you. And you shouldn’t be stuck here for the rest of your life. This is way earlier than I ever thought we’d be going separate ways, but you know I’m always going to have a room for you.”

Eyes burning, she nodded. Looking between the three of them, she almost cried. “I’m going to miss you guys so much.”

Jax pulled her into a hug, Tucker and Sam piling on a second later. She clung to all three of them, but the moment couldn’t last.

She really wanted this. She’d been thinking, when she was twelve, when she was thirteen, that if she really wanted to go to space, being a pilot in the Air Force was a good way to start, but then everything had happened and she’d thought she’d lost her only chance.

But now she could still do it, she could still work on it. And they knew about her powers, so maybe she wouldn’t be going to space in a suit on a ship, but she could still maybe go to space as part of a mission. With how her powers kept growing, maybe in a few years she wouldn’t need any of the equipment astronauts did.

She still had a chance.

This would be hard, but if it got her to space, and if she could keep her people safe at the same time, it would be worth it.

Everything would be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly love Danny Phantom; it's such an underrated show. And in case you couldn't tell, I'm massively Team Iron Man and always will be. Also, there isn't enough fem!Danny on this site.


	3. Who the Heck is Fíli?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-linear narratives are fun!

Belya jerked upright as her head began to droop. Sighing, she rubbed her eyes, then her neck. The chair she was sitting in was comfortable—it could hardly be otherwise, it was Hobbit-made—but still not exactly made to sleep in. Groaning, she pushed to her feet and stretched, eyes falling closed.

When they opened again, they fell naturally to the other occupant of the room.

Brow furrowed, she crossed to him, checking his breathing and checking for fever as she did every few hours. Or every few hours since she’d found him, anyway.

But this time, as soon as her hand touched his forehead, he stirred. Snatching her hand back, she watched, wide-eyed, as he frowned and tried to open his eyes. It wasn’t until he started to push himself up that she snapped out of her shock. “No— Master Dwarf, please, you’re still recovering— you’ll hurt yourself!”

Either he allowed her to push him back down or he was too weak to resist; either way, it didn’t bode well for his health. Finally, he managed to open his eyes, squinting blearily at her. “Who…”

It was barely more than a breath, but from such a small distance, it was easily heard. Doing her best to sound reassuring, she smiled at him. “My name is Belya, Master Dwarf. You were injured on the road and brought here to recover.”

Frown deepening a fraction, he blinked slowly. “Don’t ‘member…”

She nearly lost her smile at that, but managed to hold it somehow. “Well, you did take a nasty knock to the head. There was…” For a moment, all she could see was him as she’d found him, clothes and short, ragged blond locks soaked through in his own blood and skin nearly grey from the loss. Blinking, she forced herself to focus. “I’m sure you’ll remember soon. In the meantime, you’re perfectly welcome to recover here. But now you’re awake, it’s a bit awkward to go on calling you ‘Master Dwarf’. May I know what to call you?”

For a moment, he just blinked at her, visibly making an effort to focus. His eyes were blue, she realized, the exact shade lost between firelight and shadow. His breath caught, expression turning distressed. “I don’t remember.”

Without thinking, she caught his hand, running her other hand over his arm as soothingly as she could. He stared at nothing, breath still shaking. “I don’t remember anything.”

Kíli nearly walked into the doorframe, seeing the inside of the Prancing Pony. He’d been to more than his fair share of Mannish towns, but he’d never seen Hobbits—and by extension, Dwarves—treated so fairly as they were in Bree. Still, that didn’t prepare him for seeing another Dwarf sitting at the bar. Especially—

It had been fifteen years. Would be, a bit closer to Midsummer. And still, every time he saw a blond Dwarf, for a split second—every time—he thought it was Fíli.

Gritting his teeth against the heartache, he moved into the room, looking for a spot that would be facing away from the blond. He muttered a low curse when he found none, and none free but one beside the blond and a few a bit further down the bar. Scowling, he picked his way across the border of the room, avoiding the sight of the blond as much as he could; his luck being what it was, a gaggle of Men came in when he was only halfway there and took the further seats.

He almost left. But he’d been camping rough for more than a fortnight, and there wasn’t much game in the area. So, steeling himself, he took the last seat at the bar, determinedly not looking at the Dwarf beside him.

The blond had no such compunctions, clearly; he spoke as soon as the barkeep had taken Kíli’s order, tone one of idle curiosity. “Not many Dwarves come through here this time of year. Especially your age.”

It was for the best that the barkeep hadn’t handed Kíli his ale yet. He’d have broken the mug, hearing that voice again.

For an heartbeat, he was a Stripling again, playing stupid word games while they waited for Dwalin to begin the drills. He was shaking, he realized, only slightly, but enough that he could feel it. Or was that the ground beneath him trembling? Either way, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t blink. He couldn’t turn to look to his left, at…

“Blighted hills, you look like a pebble could knock you over. Are you alright?”

Pulse roaring in his ears, he barely managed to croak, “Fíli?”

“…Excuse me?”

Forcing himself to turn, Kíli looked properly at the Dwarf beside him; he’d have known those eyes on his deathbed. “Fíli—”

A sob cut him off, and Fíli reached out to steady him, brow furrowed and concern pulling at the corners of his mouth, but then— between one breath and the next, he saw Fíli recognize him. “…Kíli.”

It was hardly more than a breath, but Kíli heard it anyway, and nearly sobbed. He laughed instead, vision blurring, and pulled his Nadad into a hug.

It was a moment before Fíli returned it, but Kíli didn’t care; when he felt a sob wrack Fíli’s frame, he just held more tightly to him.

Belya had only just sat down when the door opened, her aunt Belba rushing to her. “Love, what on Arda—”

She cut herself off with a shrill, gasping half-shriek as she noticed the patient. “Aunt, please, shhh!” Glancing furtively at the—still sleeping, thank Yavanna—Dwarf, she spoke quickly to forestall whatever Belba had been opening her mouth to say. “You got my letter; did you bring everything I requested?”

“Well—” Catching herself at Belya’s hiss, Belba lowered her voice to a murmur, tossing a distrustful glance at the Dwarf. “Yes, but why in Yavanna’s fields did you need all those things? Honestly, Belochka, a wagon and sow?”

Irritated, she moved between her aunt and her patient; she was of a height with Belba, anymore. “It’s not as if I can carry him all the way to Bag-End; I barely managed to find someone willing to bring him here.”

“To Bag— Belladonna, you can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Holding up a hand was enough to cut off Belba’s next protest. “Aunt, no one here is willing to treat him. I can’t leave him to die.”

Exhaling heavily, Belba stole another frowning glance past Belya’s head. “Honestly, Belya, how do you get into these messes?”

That stung. “It’s not as if I go looking for them. And besides, I can’t call a wounded, amnesiac Dwarf a ‘mess’. It’s not as if he asked for this.”

“For al—” Belba jolted, blinking wide-eyed at Belya. “Amnesiac?”

Nodding, Belya tried not to think of how lost he’d looked when he woke that morning. “He doesn’t remember anything. Not how he got hurt, not how he ended up where I found him, not even his own name, Aunt. I can’t just leave him here with people who don’t care if he lives or dies.”

The furrow between Belba’s brows was deepening further with every word out of Belya’s mouth, but she didn’t try to talk her out of it, at least. “Well, I suppose it’s not as if there’s any Took nonsense in Hobbiton.”

Biting her cheek against an automatic protest, Belya smiled hopefully. “So you’ll help me?”

Pursing her lips, Belba nodded once, eying Belya critically. “I will. And I’ll keep helping once he’s settled, by being chaperone.”

Cheeks heating, Belya hissed, “Aunt Belba— Nothing will happen!”

“Then it shouldn’t be any bother for someone to protect your reputation.”

She couldn’t argue that, much as she wanted to. “We should leave for Hobbiton in the morning, then.”

Belba nodded, glancing at the sleeping Dwarf again. “I’ll be outside if he wakes.”

Fíli—his name was Fíli!—almost couldn’t bring himself to draw back from Kíli at all. His brother— he’d known that he had a brother, been sure of it, but Kíli’s name, how he looked, how he moved, spoke, acted, all that had been gone, but now he remembered—

But they did draw back from each other, mostly due to the plate that was set down in front of Kíli. Huffing out a laugh, Kíli wiped his eyes. “Mahal, Fíli. I was beginning to think you were dead.” Smile faltering and falling, he held Fíli’s gaze, expression far more lost than his little brother should have ever had cause to wear. “Why didn’t you come back, Fee? Amad refuses to even say your name. Thorin thinks you’re dead, so do Balin and Dwalin and pretty much the whole of the Ered Luin.”

Swallowing thickly, Fíli nodded to the plate. “Eat, Kee. You still look like a pebble could knock you down.”

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the wooden beams overhead, the firelight playing over them. His head ached, as did his feet and his arms, from his fingers to his shoulders. A soft breath from the other side of the room reminded him of the girl who’d been there when he first woke; she’d looked like some sort of… he couldn’t remember what.

But she’d been silhouetted, gilded, by the fire behind her, copper curls seeming to burn with a fire of their own, bursting back from the scarf holding them away from her face and brushing her shoulders. The shade of her skin was lost in the shadows, but she was darker than he was, more than a simple tan would explain away; her eyes were tilted up at the corners, almost cat-like, and he thought they were brown, or something as dark. But she was small, and her ears were as pointed as an Elf’s. The thought made a deep-seated disgust roil in his gut, but he put it out of his mind as best he could. She’d been nothing but kind.

After trading a few words with someone on the other side of the door, she moved to his bedside, smiling warmly at him. “I’m glad you’re awake; I didn’t want to move you without letting you know beforehand. Although, it’ll be much easier if you can walk out yourself.”

He didn’t understand. “What?”

Catching herself, she huffed, smile turning apologetic. “I should’ve started with a proper explanation. We’re in a farmhouse at the edge of the Shire right now. The Hobbits who live here were kind enough to bring you here and let me stay to take care of you, but they… Well, they’re farmers. They have too many things to do to play nursemaid. Technically, so do I, but I can get a bit of help until you’re on your feet again. So we’ll be going to my smial, in Hobbiton.”

Frowning, he echoed, “Smile?”

Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, she nodded. “That’s what Hobbit homes are called. Well, the traditional ones, anyway. It’s a bit of a journey, four days’ walk from here. I’m not sure how long it’ll take by wagon, but probably about the same.”

“You…” He didn’t understand. “You don’t even know me. You’re willing to have me in your home? To take time away from your work?”

The look she gave him was odd, as though the idea that a complete stranger would drop everything to help him should have been a given. “Of course. Unless you’re about to tell me that you’re an axe-murderer or something.”

That startled a laugh from him, the girl—Belya, she’d said—her eyes softening. “How would I know?”

She giggled softly, relaxing a fraction further. “Well, you have plenty of laugh-lines, so I don’t think you’re anyone as cruel as that.”

He blinked. “I do?”

Gingerly, he lifted his hand to his face, feeling short stubble, healing bruises on his cheeks, one side of his jaw, and around the opposite eye, and a large nose. Before he could feel anything more, the g— Belya caught his hand, lowering it gently, something sad in her eyes. “It’s a nice face, but still a bit too hurt to be poking and prodding too hard. There are mirrors in Bag-End you can use.”

“Bag-End?” Catching himself, he smiled. “I think I’ll forget what it’s like to say anything that isn’t a question at this rate.”

“Well, it’s only fair,” she laughed. She was still holding his hand, he realized. For a moment, he thought of bringing it up, but the moment passed. It felt nice. “Bag-End is the name of my smial. Bag-End, number one Bagshot Row, the Hill, Hobbiton.”

It was an odd address, but he couldn’t remember if it was really odd or just seemed so to him. But he wasn’t especially interested in that at the moment. “So I have a nice face?” If he wasn’t seeing things, she pinked lightly; smile growing, he raised his brows at her. “What do I look like? I can’t remember at all, you see. Could you describe me?”

She was definitely blushing now, but there was a shrewd glint in her eye that told him she knew exactly what he was doing. Still, she pursed her lips and trailed her eyes over him. “Huge nose, patchy beard, silly braids in your mustache,” she flicked one teasingly; he winced, at the feeling as much as at her words, and she softened. “Blond hair, cut almost to your skull in places. Blue eyes, I think, but the light’s too strange in here for me to tell what sort of blue. A narrow face, but a kind one. Thin brows, and little lines around your eyes. You’re young, though. You look a bit older than me, but not much; if you were a Hobbit, I’d say you’d just barely reached your majority. I think you worry a lot, though.”

Her scrutiny had turned piercing, not cruel, but perceptive, contemplative, and now his cheeks were heating. “What makes you say that?”

She smiled again, sad and kind. “You laugh too much not to be someone kind,” her fingers ghosted around the corner of his eye, then up to his forehead, “but you frown too much to be entirely carefree.”

Abruptly, she drew back; her blush deepened, and he felt his cheeks heat to match her.

“Anyway, now my aunt and uncle have brought a cart, we’ll set out for Bag-End in the morning.” She opened her mouth to say something further, but closed it again almost immediately. “I’ve just realized, you haven’t met them yet. Have…” Biting her lip, she ducked her head with a wince. “I’m sorry if it’s hard to think about, but have you remembered anything?”

Trying to track her train of thought, he frowned for a moment before realizing. “You mean, have I remembered my name.”

Wincing again, she nodded.

“No.” Sighing, he shrugging, refusing to give in to the burn behind his eyes. “Still nothing.”

Inhaling slowly, she nodded again, eyes distant. “I don’t know much of anything about Dwarves or Dwarven culture. Would it be alright for me to choose—well, for me to suggest and you to choose—a nickname for you to use until you do remember?”

He considered it carefully. There was a churning in his gut, but it wasn’t at the idea of taking a new name, he thought. Just at the fact that he’d lost his true name. “I think that would be alright.”

Her head snapped up, a wide smile making her eyes shine, making him realize that while he wasn’t sure another Dwarf would consider her beautiful, she was to him. He shoved the thought aside without examining it too closely for the time being. “Well, maybe Vanya— No, that doesn’t fit. Or Dima?”

He blinked. If he’d ever heard names like those before he’d lost his memory, he didn’t remember. “Are those Hobbit names?”

She nodded, still scrutinizing him. “No, Dima doesn’t fit either. Maybe… What about Fedya? Fyodor’s the full form.”

“Fyodor,” he spoke the name carefully, rolling it over his tongue. It didn’t quite sound right, but there was still something about it that called to him.

“Or maybe Filipp? You don’t seem much of a horseman to me, but—”

“No, I like it.” It was closer than Fyodor had been, anyway, the sound of it pulling at him. “Would that be the full form?”

Smiling, she nodded. “There are a few short forms, like Fil or Filya or Filyusha.”

“Filya.” Feeling it on his tongue, he smiled at her. “I like it. I really do.” As she grinned back at him, it occurred to him to ask, “Is ‘Belya’ a short form, too?”

For some reason, she blushed. “It is. I was named for my mother, you see, Belladonna, and she was always Donya, so I’ve always been Belya. I… I’m not sure how Dwarves handle names, but for Hobbits, names are important. You don’t call a stranger anything as familiar as a short form, but, well,” she smiled, a bit self-consciously, “I’m not sure we can really say that we’re strangers, at this point.”

To put her at ease as much as because he simply wanted to, he smiled back. “Not after you saved my life, no. How did you, anyway?”

She shrugged, blush deepening a fraction. “It wasn’t anything special. I was walking back from Bree—that’s a Mannish village not far outside the Shire—and I heard something odd. I followed the sound and found you a little ways off the road. You wouldn’t wake up, so after I was sure that you wouldn’t bleed out while I was gone, I ran here to get someone to help me get you to safety.”

Blinking, he inclined his head as much as he could laying down. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t anything anyone else wouldn’t have done. You needed help, I helped.”

“No,” he took her hand, holding her eyes solemnly when she looked over, “whether it was what anyone would have done or not, you saved my life,” he stressed. “I don’t remember much of anything, but I think that’s important to Dwarves. I think…” What did he think? Frowning, he shook his head a fraction, still holding on to her hand. “I think there’s something, special words or something, but I can’t remember them. But I’m in your debt, Belya.”

She ducked her head, but didn’t seem quite able to tear her eyes from him completely, her gaze landing somewhere on his chest, he thought. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

“I think I do.”

Slowly, her eyes returned to his, and whatever it was he’d been about to say died in his throat.

Something still told him that he owed her a life-debt. But something told him that that wasn’t something for non-Dwarves to know.

“…so I couldn’t leave her. I didn’t know who I was or where I’d come from in any case, so I didn’t see any point in wandering all of Arda when I didn’t even know if anyone would be looking for me.”

“We were.” Kíli’s voice broke; irritated with himself, he took a swig of ale, setting the mug down roughly enough to spill some onto the bar. “For fifteen years, Fee. Amad gave you up for dead after three. Thorin didn’t want to, but he did, and he let Balin talk him into declaring me the heir apparent. No matter how much I don’t want your title. But fifteen years, Fee.”

Wincing, Fíli inclined his head, accepting the reproach. “I know, Kee. I’m sorry. But I had to choose between a life I had built in the Shire, with friends and loved ones, or wandering aimlessly from town to town on the off-chance that someone, somewhere, would happen to recognize me. I didn’t know my own name, Kee. What was I meant to do, walk up to every Dwarf I saw and say, ‘sorry to bother you, but you wouldn’t happen to know who I am and who my family is and if they’re even still alive, would you’? That’s a fool’s errand.”

He had a point, as much as Kíli didn’t want to admit it.

Sighing, Fíli ran his thumb over the handle of his own pint. “For what it’s worth, I did try to compromise. I’ve come here to Bree every other month since I recovered enough for the travel, apart from winters. Anyone who was a Dwarf or mentioned that they’d be going to or near a Dwarven town, I asked to keep an eye out for my family or any news of a missing Dwarf. I’d been thinking, lately, of taking a trip to the Ered Luin with Belya, just to check on the off-chance.” He sent a pleased smirk at Kíli. “Now I know why, and now I don’t need to.”

The words stung. “Don’t need to? What, you’d just stay away forever rather than come back?”

At that, Fíli sent him a chiding look so like their Amad’s that Kíli nearly apologized straightaway. “Now I don’t need to wander the markets. Belya and I can just go straight to Thorin’s Halls.”

Kíli’s frown deepened. “You’re very insistent on this Belya coming with you.”

Fíli’s mouth quirked up into a half-smile. “You’ve been taking your lessons on diplomacy seriously. That or you’re turning into Thorin in your old age,” he teased; recognizing belatedly how much he’d sounded like their uncle, Kíli snorted.

“But you’re right, I am. Like I said, I owe her a life-debt, even if I couldn’t remember the words to make it official. Besides which, she’s a dear friend and she’s as curious as Ori when it comes to other lands and peoples. And,” he hesitated, then finished simply, with a shrug, “I’d miss her. I don’t think I could stand to never see her again any more than I could to never see you or Amad or Thorin again, now I remember you all.”

Kíli shook his head slowly, a smile creeping over him despite himself. “She must be quite the Hobbit.”

A slow, quiet smile made its way onto Fíli’s face, his eyes distant, and almost starry. “She is.”

As Fíli smiled at nothing, Kíli took note of the changes in his brother. He had no braids in his hair, the ones he’d kept in his mustache since their father’s death absent as well. His beard as a whole was thicker than Kíli had ever seen it, and nearly as red as Gloin’s, and if Kíli had to guess, he’d say that Fíli hadn’t trimmed it since he left Thorin’s Halls. He was well-fed, too, though he was keeping active, by the look of him, and his clothes were more in keeping with those of a Hobbit than a Dwarf, though similar enough that Kíli hadn’t noticed from a distance. But he looked well taken care of, and more than that, he looked happy.

After a moment, he focused on Kíli again, still smiling. “What brings you to Bree, anyway? Like I said earlier, not many Dwarves come through here.”

Kíli opened his mouth, then closed it again, glancing at the crowded room. “It’s not something to be advertised. Do you have somewhere we can talk?”

Fíli nodded, sobering to match Kíli. “The Hobbit-sized rooms were all taken when I got here; Mannish rooms are big enough for the both of us.”

With that, they took up their plates and headed upstairs, and Kíli told him.

Belya leaned back against the side of the wagon, soaking in the sunlight. Filya was across from her, with enough blankets padding him that she doubted he’d feel it if they ran over a log. Her aunt and uncle hadn’t said much when they met him, but she could tell they were reserving judgement.

For Filya’s part, he was looking all around him with obvious curiosity. Whether he’d seen the Shire before or not, it clearly wasn’t bringing back his memory at all. “What sort of tree is that?”

Twisting around to look, Belya grinned at the sight of an orchard over them, the trees green and tall on a ridge, and almost close enough to touch. “Peach. I didn’t realize we’d missed the harvest.” Smile fading, she looked toward her uncle Rudigar. “Who oversaw the orchards?”

“Don’t know.”

Scowling, she opened her mouth to demand further answers, but let it close again. He didn’t have any reason to know, anyway.

Fortunately, she caught sight of a familiar figure a little ways down the road. “Holman!”

He jolted around at her call, grinning to see her. “It’s about time you got back— Where the blighted hills have you been?”

Belba tutted at the language; Belya ignored her, grinning back at him. “Long story.”

Scrambling up onto the ridge beside the road, he jumped into the wagon beside her, nearly elbowing her in the face as he did. Smacking him, Belya nearly missed the mistrustful look he gave Filya. “Who’s the Dwarf?”

Scoffing, she smacked him again, harder. “Be nice!” Ignoring his—exaggerated—whinging, she met Filya’s eyes, smiling to see amusement, rather than offense. “Filya, the rude one is Holman.”

“Her best friend,” he cut in.

Rolling her eyes, she elbowed him. “My gardener.”

“Practically her brother.”

Glaring at him, she bit out, “My tenant.”

“One of them,” he bit back, then glared at Filya. “Although you probably already knew that, if you’re making moves on her.”

“Holman!”

Ignoring her, he glared that much more intensely at Filya. “What’s your game?”

Scowling, she shoved him, hard enough to nearly knock him out of the wagon. “Stop being a cretin!”

He smacked her hands away, scowling back. “I’m looking out for you!”

“He’s my patient, you idiot!” She shoved him again.

She really should have expected him to shove her back. “Stop being so trusting!”

“Geroff me!”

“Belladonna Baggins!”

Mid-grapple, she looked back at Belba. Grimacing, she rolled her eyes at Filya, planted the heel of her free hand on Holman’s forehead, and shoved him away.

Rubbing his neck where she’d had her arm a moment earlier, he smirked at Filya. “I taught her to fight.”

“Yeah, and I still beat you every time.”

“Do not!”

“Name once!”

“This is not becoming of a Baggins.” Belba’s voice was as frosty as Belya had ever heard her.

As stifling as she could be, she was still family. Grimacing again at Filya, Belya forced herself to sound as sincere as possible. “Sorry, Aunt Belba.”

As subtly as she could, she dug her elbow into Holman’s side; he yelped, doing his best to pass it off as a laugh.

Filya raised his hand to his face; it took her a moment to realize that he was hiding laughter.

For the fun of it, she snuck a wink at him; his eyes widened, but he returned the wink, a smile crinkling his eyes.

Quietly, Holman hissed, “You see why I’m worried?”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Belladonna!”

Teeth clenched, she inhaled deeply, holding it for a moment before she released it again. “Anyway, who oversaw the orchards during harvest? It wasn’t any of the Mugwort boys, was it?”

“No, Rollo Smallburrow stepped up.”

Raising a brow, she smirked. “Well, good for him. He’s got some sense, at least.”

“Only some.”

“Yeah, but I at least don’t have to wonder if the entire field somehow burnt down while I was gone.”

“Fair enough.”

Leaning against Holman, she teased, “Don’t you mean Goodenough?”

Rolling his eyes, he shoved her upright again. “Shut up.”

Grinning, she mock-whispered to Kíli, “He’s had a crush on Laila Goodenough for three years.”

“Yeah, and she has half a dozen suitors.”

Still smiling, Filya furrowed his brow at her. “Wait, you said tenants?”

“I said tenants,” Holman grumbled.

Ignoring him, she answered delicately, “My father’s family has a fair bit of influence in Hobbiton.”

Holman snorted, then narrowed his eyes at Filya. “You actually don’t know?”

Before she could say anything, Filya did. “I don’t know much of anything. My name included.”

Holman blinked at him. “What?”

“I have absolutely no idea who I am or where I’m from.”

“Oh.” To his credit, Holman did look genuinely apologetic. “Blighted hills, sorry. That sounds horrible.”

Filya shrugged, but there was a tension in the motion that made Belya’s heart ache. “It could be worse. At least I woke up to a friendly face.” He smiled at Belya, warmly enough that she couldn’t help but smile back.

Holman’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “That was bloody lucky.” She elbowed him; he lightened his tone a fraction. “Belyusa owns half of Hobbiton.”

“Barely a third!”

“Not for long,” he snickered. “Goold’s looking to sell.”

“Wait, he what?” At his nod, Belya fought the urge to dance a jig in the wagon; she settled for laughing, turning her face up to the sun. “Blight and blood—”

“Language!”

“—if I’d known a little time to think would finally bring him around, I’d have taken a trip to Bree weeks ago!”

Sharing her grin, Holman knocked his shoulder against hers. “Better go quick, though. Fredrigar Hornblower’s been sniffing around for the last few days.”

“Ugh,” if Belba hadn’t been just there, Belya would have retched; Holman snickered, knowing her well enough to expect that.

“Nasty character?”

Scoffing, she grimaced at Filya. “That’s putting it lightly.”

“The Hornblowers are a respectable family, Belya!”

“The Hornblowers are respectable,” she agreed waspishly, meeting Filya’s eyes, “Fredrigar is a slippery cad who is, unfortunately, just clever enough to avoid giving me any real reason to kick him somewhere it really, really hurts.”

Filya quirked a brow as Belba squawked. “Belladonna! That is utterly deplorable!”

She sent a too-toothy smile up at her aunt. “Well, then, he should learn to take no for an answer, shouldn’t he?”

“He is a nice boy!”

“He’s a handsy weasel.”

“He cares for you very much, I’m sure.”

Scoffing, she looked away. “He cares for my money.”

Holman met her gaze sympathetically. “They all do.”

“You’re well-off, then?” Filya glanced between her and Holman, brows raised.

“Now that’s putting it lightly.”

She elbowed Holman reflexively, not looking away from Filya. “I’m comfortable.”

“If comfortable means that she keeps most of Hobbiton afloat.”

Rolling her eyes, she amended, “Employs a good number of people, he means.”

“And outright supports a fair few more.”

“I’m not in the business of charity,” she retorted.

Holman snorted. “Right, that’s why you haven’t collected rent from any of the Underhills in six months.”

She gave him a pointed glare. “And that would be fair when they were laid out with cowpox for half the summer how, exactly?”

“Thank you for proving my point.”

“I’m on his side.”

Head snapping to Filya, she scoffed, mock-offended. “Wonderful, you’ve known each other two minutes and already you’re teaming up against me.” Despite her best efforts, she didn’t manage to keep from grinning as she looked between them.

They grinned back, then at each other. Filya mentioned casually, “You know, I can’t remember, but I’ve got a funny feeling that I know more than a few ways to maim people.”

Holman blanched a shade, but kept grinning anyway. “Huh, and here I know the names of all the good-for-nothings who’ve been bothering Belya since she went on the market.”

Tartly, Belba snapped, “That is a horrible way to speak of reaching courting age.”

“And yet, accurate,” Belya muttered. Filya stifled a snort, sharing a grin with her.

“You should be taking your future more seriously.” Belba actually twisted around to scold Belya properly. “You’ll be an old maid at this rate!”

“Mum and Dad didn’t get married until she was thirty.”

If it was possible, Belba’s tone got even more tart. “Your mother was not a Baggins.”

Eying her sidelong, Belya snipped, “You didn’t marry Uncle Rudigar until you were twenty-seven.”

“We didn’t meet until I was twenty-six,” Belba retorted, “and I had at least considered courtships before then.”

“You’d at least had palatable offers before then.”

“So have you.”

“Not by my standards.”

Belba was drawing herself up for a proper shout when Filya interrupted, voice somewhat strangled. “I’m sorry, but Hobbits marry how young, exactly?”

Glancing at him, Belya addressed Belba in the professional, clipped tone that she usually reserved for her would-be suitors. “Excuse me, Aunt, but it seems that I need to address a cultural difference between us and my guest,” she stressed. She turned to face Filya fully before Belba could respond. “I’m not sure what Dwarven lifespans are like, but Hobbits reach full adulthood at thirty-three. Twenty-two is generally when apprenticeships begin, and also when lasses begin to consider courtship offers. Sometimes they have their heart set on someone already and they marry as soon as they can, at twenty-five. More often, it takes time,” she bit out, “for them to find someone—anyone—with whom they can even stand to hold a prolonged conversation, let alone with whom they want to spend the rest of their life.”

“This is important, Belya.”

“This would be my point, Aunt.”

Filya shook his head, pulling her attention back to him. “And you’re how old?”

“Twenty-four.” She flicked her eyes over him as she spoke, evaluating.

Holman was the one to blurt the question she’d bitten back. “How old are you?”

He opened his mouth as she smacked Holman, then closed it slowly. After a moment, he asked, subdued, “How old do I look?”

“I told you before, you don’t look much older than me.” Looking to Holman, she nudged him. “How old would you say?”

He squinted at Filya, shaking his head slowly. “I’d say thirty-three, if you were a Hobbit, maybe thirty-four. I think the beard’s making you look a bit older, though.”

She shrugged at Filya. “Told you.”

“Ten years isn’t ‘not much older’,” he frowned.

Holman took her side, surprisingly. “No, that’s not bad. My parents are ten years apart, and her uncle Hildigrim’s sixteen years older than his wife.”

Automatically, she corrected, “First cousin once removed.”

He rolled his head to the side, raising a brow at her. “No one cares, Belochka. You have more cousins than Buckland has trees.”

Rolling her eyes, she shoved him away. “Anyway, do you know when Dwarves reach adulthood?”

Filya frowned, eyes dimming. “S… Sixty? Or seventy?”

Belya’s brows leapt to her hairline.

“But apprenticeship… forty? I think?”

Belya frowned; Holman spoke slowly. “So… you could be anywhere from forty to seventy, and there would be no way to tell?”

Seeing Filya’s frown begin to turn distressed, Belya said brightly, “Let’s go with sixty! Nice, round number.”

Both boys gave her incredulous looks, but there was a grateful, amused edge to Filya’s that made it worth it.

Filya nodded, a smile pulling at his lips. “Sixty sounds fair.”

Holding his eyes, she murmured softly, “You don’t have to.”

For a moment, he only looked back at her, eyes crinkled. Just as softly, he murmured back, “I want to.”

Crossing over a river—Brandywine, Fíli had called it—Fíli froze abruptly. “I’m four years younger than I thought I was.”

Kíli looked at him sidelong; the Hobbit working the ferry gave him an odd look.

Huffing out a half-laugh, Fíli shook his head. “I didn’t know how old I was, but I looked enough of an adult that we just decided I must have just come of age. Of course, I couldn’t remember when Dwarves came of age, either.”

Kíli snorted. “You’re barely of age now.”

“You’re five years younger than me, brateeshka.” Kíli squinted at him for the foreign word at the same moment that Fíli gave him the same look. “How’d you get Thorin to let you come on the Quest?”

Kíli shrugged, chest aching at the reminder of how long he’d fought mourning his brother. “Either I was going on the Quest or Amad was, and no one would be stupid enough to think I could run the Halls yet.”

Fíli sobered, eyes dropping to the water. “How’s Amad?”

Kíli blew out a slow breath. “Mourning you still. Tired. Angry. Doing her best to keep it together. Not keeping herself together nearly as well as she’s keeping Thorin’s Halls running.”

Fíli didn’t respond for a long moment, long enough that they’d already reached the shore and remounted their ponies before he spoke. “I can’t tell her yet.”

“Wh— Fíli, she thinks you’re dead!”

“I’m going with you.” Kíli gaped at him, his pony following Fíli’s as his hands slackened on the reins. Fíli went on, voice hard, “The Quest is for our home, our heritage. I cannot and will not stand back and hide while my kin fight for what I have been longing for this entire time, whether or not I remembered what it was I was missing. I would have no right to call myself a son of Dís if I did. After the Quest, I’ll go to Amad and tell her everything, and she’ll probably shear me herself for making her wait months longer, but if I cannot tell her I’m alive just to force her to mourn me again if I die at Smaug’s hand.”

Kíli wanted to protest, but couldn’t. Fíli was right, at least about the probability that one, both, or all of them would never return. “I’m telling her it was your idea.”

Catching up to Fíli, he saw the smirk he couldn’t before. “Wouldn’t expect anything else, Kee.”

“Yes, thank you, I’m glad I’m back, too, I’ll visit later!”

Belya closed the door a bit more quickly than was really necessary, and leaned against it as though she’d escaped a horde, not her own neighbors.

Filya was having a hard time holding back a laugh; she gave him a tart look. “Don’t you start, too.”

Holding up his hands in surrender, he wasn’t surprised when Belba tutted and disappeared further into the… dwelling. “You clearly get on with your neighbors.”

Tone wry, Belya half-corrected, half-groaned, “Tenants. And friends, most of them.”

On the last word, she faltered, glancing guiltily at the empty air where her aunt and uncle had been a few moments prior.

Meeting his eyes sheepishly, she pushed off from the door. “No respectable Baggins should be on equal terms with people of lower social standing, according to my relatives. They ignore the fact that my father was the one to encourage my forming friendships with Holman and the other children my age.”

She walked toward a doorway behind Filya, beginning to wave him after her before her eyes fell to his feet and she held a hand up, voice hard. “Boots off.”

He frowned, looking down at them. “Why?”

“I’m not having dirt and mud ground into my carpets, do you have any idea how hard it is to get those out?”

“I can do the carpet-beating, if that’s the… issue…”

Heat pooled slowly in Filya’s cheeks as he realized the unintentional innuendo, and continued to build as Belya caught it with a vivid blush of her own, until he was fairly sure that his head would actually burst in another moment.

The worse issue was that he couldn’t look away from her.

Seeing her next to the other Hobbits, it was much harder to ignore that she was lovely. He doubted that Dwarven women looked like her, but maybe they did— he wouldn’t have any way to know. But whatever his own Race looked like, he couldn’t deny his attraction to women—or at least this woman—of another Race entirely.

At the thought, he was finally able to wrench his eyes away, berating himself for a lecher and a cad— she was less than half his age, for—

Not being able to even remember any cusses wasn’t helping his state of mind any.

Voice a strangled squeak, she darted away. “Washroom there— boots off—”

She disappeared after Belba, and Filya lurched into the washroom she’d been leading him to, scrubbing his feet raw in a desperate bid to get his mind out of the gutter.

Fíli smacked Kíli upside the head as he caught him looking the serving girl. “She’s barely twenty-two, Kee, don’t be a lecher.”

Kíli blanched, head snapping toward Fíli. “She— No, you’re having me on!”

Fíli shook his head, gesturing toward the girl in question, probably one of Belya’s cousins, given that she was too tall not to be a Fallohide and her hair was too red not to be Tookish. “See how high her neckline is? That means she’s not of betrothal age yet. She doesn’t have any ruffles or lace or anything decorative besides ribbons, really, which means that she’s not courting at the moment. But she does have a fair bit of embroidery, so she’s old enough to court, just not interested. But she’s also not wearing an over-corset, which she should be, at her age, but those are a bit more time-intensive to get ahold of—not to mention expensive—than embroidery or ruffles. So, early Tweens, more than twenty-two, but not much over. Therefore, too young for you.”

He patted Kíli on the top of the head as he finished, teasingly, then did him the favor of pushing his jaw up before he swallowed a fly. Blinking, Kíli kept gaping at him.

Fíli took a sip of beer. Not as good as the Green Dragon’s, but it was better than the swill in Michal Delving.

It was another moment before Kíli recovered the ability to speak. “You’re telling me… that… that— that is what a twenty-two year old Half—”

Fíli slammed his mug down, glowering deeply at his brother. “Finish that word and you’ll be tossed out of the Shire on your ear before you can blink.”

Kíli gaped at him again. “But—”

“And I’d help them.”

Wordlessly, Kíli raised his hands in silent surrender; Fíli sat back in his chair, groaning to see his beer in a puddle on the table. The mug was cracked nearly enough to be called ‘broken’, rather than ‘damaged’. It might not have shattered, but it was still useless.

The serving girl Kíli had been ogling came over with a frown; this close, Fíli could tell he’d been right, she was a late bloomer for a Hobbit, looking even younger than her evident age. “What happened here?”

He smiled as disarmingly as he could, ducking his head slightly to compensate for his height. “It’s been too long for my own good since I used crockery. I’ll pay to replace it.”

She blinked at him, cheeks darkening a shade. “Oh. Well. Um, I’m sure it’s fine,” she glanced over her shoulder at the older Hobbitess tending bar, or at least she had been tending bar before the conversation began. Now she was squinting suspiciously at Fíli.

“Your mistress?” The girl nodded, looking back to Fíli wide-eyed. Gently, he gestured for her to go to the bar. “Go and ask how much I owe. I can pay in coin, goods, or the services of Bag-End.”

Her eyes widened further at the name, and she was darting away before he could even look back at the barmistress.

Kíli was goggling at the entire scene, though much more subtly than he would have fifteen years earlier. Fíli raised a brow at him. “Tip for future reference, Kee: that word is very close to being the worst insult that you can offer a Hobbit, and yes, I learned that the hard way. Another tip,” he lowered the pitch of his voice significantly; Hobbits could still hear that register, but it was more difficult, especially someplace with as much ambient noise as the bar they were in. “Never give a Hobbit any hint that you are angry or any reminder of how much stronger you are than them in a situation like this.”

Kíli furrowed his brow at him, but spoke as lowly. “We wouldn’t hurt them even if we were angry.”

“They don’t know that. They don’t know us. You won’t have to be so careful in Hobbiton, the Hobbits there are used to me, but I don’t even usually pass through this town on the way back from Bree. If we didn’t have the ponies, I would have had us keep going and camp between towns.” Kíli’s frown deepened—he really did look more like Thorin than ever—but Fíli didn’t give him a chance to get offended. “Think about it from their perspective, Kee. They’re the smallest, weakest Race on Arda, and now their home—their haven—is hosting two strange men who could conquer their entire land without a single reinforcement.”

That drew Kíli up short, frown turning sober as he considered Fíli’s words.

The barmistress was the one to come over, probably realizing that her server had a bit of a crush; the way she was pouting behind the bar seemed to confirm that. Fíli nodded respectfully to her as she came within earshot. “Mistress Innkeep.”

That had been a guess, but by the pleased surprise that flickered over her face, he’d guessed correctly. “Master Dwarf. You told Ruby you can pay in goods?”

Ruby, he noted, definitely a Took, or at least a cousin. “I did. I don’t have much with me at the moment, my brother and I are traveling back to Hobbiton, but once I reach Bag-End, I can arrange for anything within reason to be sent.”

Her brow raised, a hint of suspicion in her frown. “You’re expected by Mistress Baggins?”

To that, he only grinned and nodded to the girl, Ruby. “I’m sure she’s brought gossip from home about her scandalous cousin and her Dwarven houseguest. Or are you going to tell me that she isn’t a Took? Although I’m not sure how you could, when she has the Old Took’s hair.”

The barmistress smirked, but there was a bit more respect in her eyes. “Sun-touched.”

“Fey-touched,” he corrected automatically, adding with a smirk of his own, “or at least that’s what Belukha calls it.”

At that, he knew the barmistress believed him. Her bearing relaxed a fraction, even as she tilted her chin up. “A carton of lemons.”

“Half a carton,” he countered. Her brows raised imperiously; he pointed out calmly, “One mug won’t cut into your profits that much.”

“Travelers come through most nights, we need every mug we can get.”

“And you can always borrow one for the week it’ll take for you to be paid. Not to mention, this is hardly the East Road. This time of year, I’d be surprised if you had ten travelers pass through in a month. Most of your custom’s going to be locals, and they’ll be glad of the excuse to stay around for another song.”

Pursing her lips at him, she fought a smirk and nodded to him. “I’ll expect that delivery a week from tomorrow.”

“You’ll have it.”

She walked away, skirts swaying, and Fíli had to keep himself from staring. Mahal, he missed Belya.

Kíli was staring at him, he realized, something soft and sad in his eyes. “You’ve grown up a lot.”

Fíli could only offer him a sad smile and a shrug. “I didn’t have anyone to lean on. Had to learn how to stand on my own.”

A different server came over, a man Fíli guessed was the barmistress’ brother, from his age and resemblance to her, and set a new mug down in front of Fíli before wiping the spill quickly up. As he walked away, Kíli lifted his beer in a toast. “To standing on our own.”

Looking at his brother—the boy he’d spent most of his life protecting, now grown into a man who only needed Fíli’s guidance because he didn’t know Hobbits like Fíli did—Fíli returned the toast, holding Kíli’s eyes. “To standing on our own.”

Filya startled slightly at the sight of a man standing opposite him as he left the washroom—cloakroom, really—only to flush as he realized it was a mirror.

But his flush died quickly as he actually processed the sight, stepping closer to examine himself more fully.

It was only a small-ish mirror, likely hung there for the purpose of checking one’s hair and collar, everything not able to be seen by oneself. He had to crouch as he neared it, steadying himself on the wall, but it was large enough for him to see his full face.

Belya had told him the truth: it was a nice face. Like she’d said, his eyes were blue, light and grayish in the shadows. The braids in his mustache had mostly come loose over the last few days, with nothing to secure them, and he shook them the rest of the way free. It only made them more ridiculous.

His hair was ridiculous overall, though, as unevenly cut as she’d described, but she hadn’t mentioned that the spots where his hair wasn’t even long enough to hide his scalp were clearly the result of someone cutting off other braids. Maybe she hadn’t realized; in days of nonstop proximity with Hobbits, he hadn’t seen anything but the most rudimentary braids, and not anywhere near as often as he saw ribbons, scarves, and pins used to hold back hair. None of the men he saw had hair long enough for a single braid— most of the women barely did, some keeping their hair as short as a man’s, others, like Belya, keeping it only to their shoulders.

His hair was supposed to be long, he thought, but he couldn’t picture it properly. He couldn’t even picture himself with short hair that wasn’t so uneven.

She’d said his beard was patchy, but as far as he could tell, it wasn’t so much that it was sparse as it was that his hair was almost the same shade as his skin, or at least close enough that it was to similar to make out from a distance. It was all about the same length, at least, and the fact that his mustache was so long spoke to it being an intentional style.

He had no idea why, though, and not much inclination to continue something so ludicrous without good reason.

His nose had definitely been broken at least once, and there was a small scar just under his bottom lip, long since healed to nothing more than a silvery line, only visible when he pulled his lip back over his teeth. He only noticed it because of all the angles he was looking at himself from. It would be easily visible to any Hobbit, though, with how short they all seemed to be. His ears were larger than a Hobbit’s, though, although entirely rounded,

But he saw the character she’d described, too. His face wasn’t lined when it was at rest, but laugh-lines made themselves easily known when he gave even a small smile, pensive lines in his brow presenting themselves as he examined himself. For experiment’s sake, he sneered, then glowered, then smirked; the first expression looked completely alien on him, none of the ease of a smile in it, the glower only slightly less foreign, and he suspected that was simply because his resting face was already sober, and even an intentional glower didn’t actually change his expression much. The smirk, though, that was as natural as breathing, even more so when he softened it to be playful rather than cruel.

He didn’t know what sort of things he’d done before losing his memory, but if his face was anything to go by, he wouldn’t remember anything he would rather forget.

A throat being quietly cleared brought him abruptly back to the present, heat flooding his cheeks at the sight of Belya standing a little ways away. She had her head turned away, cheeks dark. “Afternoon tea is ready, if you’re hungry.”

She turned to leave, and he called out without thinking. “Belya, I didn’t mean—”

Remembering what he’d said, he felt his entire head heat. She’d stopped when he called, and turned partway around when he didn’t go on. He could only see the edge of her face, but he could see that she wasn’t angry, at least. “I’ve heard worse comments and cleverer comments, but I think you were the first man to make one by mistake.”

A smile grew slowly as she spoke, his hope growing with it. “Hopefully it was one of the more forgettable you’ve heard.”

Her smile widened a fraction; after a moment, she looked over at him, sidelong. “Food’s waiting.”

Fíli let out a relieved breath as the front door of Bag-End came into view, only to frown. The lights were all on, when it was well past supper-time— all the smials and houses he and Kíli had gone past for the last half-hour had been dark, as would be expected. A blue light was shining brightly from the center of the door, dimming as they neared until Fíli made out a ‘G’ rune from a few feet away. He didn’t slow to take in any more details before pushing the door open—gut wrenching to find it unlocked—only to see Belya, surrounded by Dwarves and one Wizard, strike a huge, dark Dwarf full in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up so, so long. I just kept thinking of things that needed to happen, and then people just wouldn't stop talking.


	4. An Unexpected Dwobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bella's not exactly looking forward to meeting her father. The feeling wouldn't be mutual, but then, it's not like he knows he has a daughter in the first place.

Bella brushed the dirt off her hands with a smile; it had taken a decade of memorizing every story Holman and Hamfast had about gardening, and nearly as long of carefully tending potted plant after potted plant, but finally, she’d managed to not only cultivate a proper garden plant, but had kept it in good enough health for it to come back after the winter’s sleep.

Maybe now, the Bagginses would go a bit easier on her.

As she rounded the house, a shadow on the fence caught her eye; on looking up, her brows shot up. “Gandalf!”

The old wizard smiled fondly at her. “Belladonna Took-Baggins. You look very much like your mother.”

Bella ducked her head, not sure whether to smile or wince; she did miss her mother terribly, but she also knew full well that she’d only inherited her dark coloring, not her curls, not her height, not even her figure. A wavy-haired, freakishly-tall, over-muscled Baggins? Her relatives never let her forget it. As if she could have when she was the only Hobbit in the Shire to look like she did.

“In fact…” She looked back up automatically; Gandalf frowned thoughtfully, scanning her face. “You hardly look a day over twenty-six.”

Taking a deep breath, Bella offered him a tight smile and gestured to the door. “I think this is a discussion better had in private.”

Still frowning, he followed her indoors and into the study, and listened as she detailed the complications of her life.

Over tea—the discussion had run rather long—he glanced between her and the paintings of her parents. “And you’re certain?”

Only long practice kept her from scowling at him like a tween. “Do I look like a fifty-year-old Hobbit? That alone is proof enough.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Belladonna never breathed a word of it to me.”

“I guessed.” Sighing, she shrugged faintly. “All she ever told me was that my father was a good, kind man who’d had family obligations that kept him from coming home with Mother, or her going with him. That was more than she ever told Father. I still don’t know how Elrond managed to find his name.”

Frowning, he took a sip of tea. “And you’re quite certain you remember the name correctly?”

“Completely. It’s not exactly something I could forget.”

For a few moments, Gandalf only watched her unreadably. “Why did you never seek him out?”

She sighed. “At first, I didn’t want to find him just to have to tell him Mother was dead, especially since I probably would’ve broken down crying, back then. Then Father passed away just before I returned from Rivendell, and I had to bury him, then I had to properly take over Bag-End and her properties—I’m only glad I’d already been helping Father with the management, or I’d have been completely lost—and then I didn’t see the point.” She shrugged again. “I may not be a full Hobbit, but I am fifty years old. I don’t need my hand held by a man I’ve never so much as seen before.”

“Bella Baggins!” She jolted upright, belatedly realizing she’d been staring at the table—blast it, she thought she’d eradicated that habit!—and met the wizard’s fierce eyes with no small amount of apprehension. “Hobbits may come of age at thirty-three, but by Dwarven law, you will not be an adult for another twenty years!”

Bella was inclined to stay quiet and hope he stopped yelling. Her tongue disagreed, apparently. “So since I’m half and half, we’ll split the difference and say I came of age this year?”

His glare intensified.

Before he could start again, she added, “I’ve been living on my own for fifteen years, Gandalf, and managing the fields and houses and all the Hobbits therein for longer. I may not legally be an adult, but I am not a child, either. I don’t need someone to teach me how to be on my own.”

As she’d hoped, the wizard’s expression softened somewhat. “But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t benefit from having your father in your life. Don’t you want to know him, at least?”

Even as she opened her mouth to answer, Gandalf’s tone struck her as odd. “…Why do I get the feeling it doesn’t really matter how I answer?”

He smiled a bit sheepishly. “I have to admit, I do have a project in mind for you. Or, rather, I have you in mind for a project.”

“Project?”

“Well, Quest. I tried to contact you earlier this year, but you were traveling, for the Elven New Year, I believe, and unfortunately, time is of the essence.”

Relaxing somewhat, she eyed him suspiciously. “What exactly does this Quest entail?”

“More than a bit of danger, I should think, though I have every faith that you would succeed in it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “But how likely is it that I’d come back afterwards?”

He met her gaze evenly, sorrow seeping into his eyes. “Not very. I can make no guarantees for your safety, nor for your health. I am as certain as I can be that you would succeed in obtaining the Quest’s goal—in fact, I don’t believe the Quest has a hope of succeeding without you—but aside from the risks involved in it, I don’t believe there is an insignificant chance that you would choose to stay with your father after everything, or at least with his people.”

She clenched her jaw—her Mum’s people had never shown any sign of welcoming her; why would his?

“Dwarves value family as highly as Hobbits do, Bella, and children more so. A large Dwarven family has no more than four children—after that, they’re considered singularly blessed—and most Dwarves never have children of their own. In addition, the group of Dwarves you would be helping in particular have been homeless and wandering for the better part of a lifetime. They’ve had only twelve children born in that time, and only two of them were female.” He hadn’t dropped her eyes the entire time he’d been speaking, but now he leaned forward, and she thought it could actually be impossible for her to look away. “They would treasure you, Bella, no matter the circumstances of your birth. And in any case, you are half Dwarven. How can you choose between one or the other if you only know hearsay of Dwarves?”

Blinking away a blur, she glared feebly at him; her heart wasn’t in it. “…Alright.”

His brows jumped. “You’ve decided already?”

Now she managed a proper glare. “If you thought I was a lost cause, you wouldn’t have been trying so hard. Besides,” she held back a grimace, “I’m already being called ‘well-preserved’. If I stay in the Shire much longer, they’ll start accusing me of using black magic to stay young or something.” Huffing out a laugh, she glanced toward her study. “I’d already started drafting letters and such; Elrond told me I was welcome in Rivendell, so I’d planned to go there sometime in the next few years.”

Gandalf coughed lightly, trying to hide a smile. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t inform the Company of that if I were you. Dwarves and Elves tend to butt heads more often than not, and the Company might think you were taking the enemy’s side.”

“The enemy? You’re not serious, surely.” But he shook his head, grimacing faintly.

“Unfortunately, I am. The leader of the Company, Thorin Oakenshield, has a greater grievance against Elves than most Dwarves, and as most of the Company are his kin, they agree with him. Even if they didn’t, Dwarves have no trust for Elves; they consider them oath-breakers and kin-slayers, which are very nearly the worst crimes a Dwarf can commit. Elves…” He sighed. “Elves have isolated themselves in recent years. They have little knowledge and less appreciation for the chaotic nature of mortals, and many of them tend to hold the crimes of the long-since dead against their descendants.

“It isn’t entirely their fault. Elves do not die as mortals do, and I’m not sure all of them understand that there are no living Dwarves who remember the First Age. But that is not to say that they are blind. The patterns and cycles of the world are easier to see from an immortal perspective; it can grow tiresome to watch the same dramas play out generation after generation, if there is no pity to temper the frustration.”

Despite herself, she had to bite back a laugh; she couldn’t keep count of how many times she’d mediated virtually the same argument between Hugo Boffin and Longo Sackville, and she knew from her father’s records that Hugo and Longo’s fathers had argued over much the same. Dismissing the issue for the moment, she wiped away her smile. “Now, exactly what is this Quest?”

Gandalf shifted in his seat. “I believe the details are best explained by the Company. For the time being, suffice it to say that Thorin and his kin were driven from their home many years ago, and they now seek to reclaim it.”

She raised a brow. “And my place in this is…”

He coughed again. “As I said, I think that’s best explained by the Company. May I tell them they’re welcome to come to dinner tomorrow evening?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but let it go for the moment. “Of course. How many am I procuring food for?”

“Thirteen.” She stared at him. “Not including you or myself, of course.”

She didn’t answer. She was busy counting to ten. Approximately forty seconds later, she asked lightly, “And at what time will we be departing?”

“Dawn the day after tomorrow, I should think.”

“So dinner and breakfast for fifteen, then.” Rubbing her temple against a sudden headache, she glared at him. “At least I have a day’s warning.”

He coughed again, confirming her suspicion that he would have sprung them on her without so much as a warning if she hadn’t agreed, and stood to take his leave.

“Send Hamfast or Holman to fetch Aunt Mirabella for me, whichever of them is in the garden. And tell Holman to come in with her. I’ll be in my study.” As she stood to go, Bella paused, her thoughts circling back to one matter. “Gandalf. Would I be right in assuming my father is part of the Company coming here tomorrow?”

It certainly seemed as though that had been what he was implying. Gandalf shifted his weight as best he could without knocking his head on a beam. “Well, yes.”

“And you’ll be seeing him today?”

“Ah, well, yes.”

“Don’t tell him about me.” He blinked at her. “I don’t want him to know, at least not yet. And don’t tell any of them I’m half Dwarf, or my age. I won’t be treated like a child, Gandalf.” She’d had more than enough of that.

Sighing, Gandalf nodded. “If you wish. But you do look rather stunningly like your mother, Bella. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“But do I look like him?”

Thoughtful, Gandalf considered her for a few moments. “You certainly have his eyes. Possibly his hair. But not so much that anyone will suspect without already having been told.”

“Good. Then don’t. I refuse to be babied.” At his glower, she raised a hand. “I’ll tell him after the Quest is finished, if I haven’t by then.”

The glower faded, but it was replaced with something quieter that Bella couldn’t easily identify. “And if you never have the chance?”

Taking a moment to consider it, her resolve nearly failed her. But she shrugged lightly. “If I can’t tell him, I’ll tell his kin. But Gandalf, if I’m the one to fall, I don’t want you to tell him. I don’t want him to know if it’ll only bring him pain.”

Sorrow hanging on him as tangibly as his robes, Gandalf agreed and left. Bella took a moment to banish the thoughts of death and grief he’d brought, and went to her study. She had work to do.

Bofur glanced at Bifur reflexively as they waited for their host to answer their knock, checking if he was growing agitated. Of course, he wasn’t. Bofur was.

He hadn’t been in the Shire for over fifty years, and he’d never been in Hobbiton at all—only Hardbottle, in North Farthing—so this green, grassy, peaceful place was completely unfamiliar. A shadow of a memory drifted up, a memory of one of her stories, but he shoved it away again. The last thing he needed was to break down, remembering her.

But she’d loved it here, and it was all too easy for him to imagine her walking these paths, living in one of these homes. If he could have imagined that she was still alive, it would have been bliss.

But he didn’t have that luxury. His family—with the exception of Bombur and his brood—had never been blessed with good fortune; it figured that he’d be one of the unlucky few to only realize who his One was when he felt her die. He hadn’t even seen her in years, but he’d felt it, sure as stone under his hand. Belladonna was dead and gone, and nothing could bring her back.

But then the door opened. And Bofur’s heart stopped.

An instant later, he realized it wasn’t her, of course it wasn’t. Belladonna was gone, and this girl looked younger than ‘Donna had been when they first met, let alone what she’d look like fifty years later.

And besides, the longer he looked at her, the more differences he saw. Belladonna’s hair had been curly as anything, but this girl’s was wavy and twice as thick, though it was coiled into the same style of bun ‘Donna had always favoured. This girl had Belladonna’s face, but not her eyes—no, this girl’s were like dark topazes, not like Belladonna’s stormy blue—or her smile, and while her coloring was similar, her skin was a few shades lighter than Belladonna’s rich-earth tones, more golden. And where ‘Donna had barely come to his collarbone, as he filed past the girl, introducing himself with the rest, he saw that she was just a hair shorter than Fíli, about as high as Bofur’s mouth if he stood up straight, his nose if he didn’t.

But she had the same brown-black hair, the same fae-clever face, the same way of bobbing her head when she curtsied.

This was going to hurt, he could tell already.

Once they were all inside, she closed the door and smiled at them—the sort of professional, distant smile ‘Donna had always hated. “I apologize in advance if I mistake anyone’s names. But I’m Belladonna Took-Baggins,” she curtsied gracefully, “at your service and your family’s. Gandalf told me some of the situation,” her eyes darted to the wizard in question as her tone hardened slightly, “but refused to explain in full. In any case, I have dinner prepared. Gandalf, you know where the dining room is.”

Murmuring polite thanks, the Company filed past; Bofur found himself hanging back as she did, not quite wanting to look away, though he knew he ought to. So, he didn’t notice Fíli moving toward her until it was too late to warn him.

The look on the girl’s face as he dumped his weapons in her arms was almost exactly like ‘Donna’s had been, but unlike her, she didn’t start shouting until Kíli wiped his feet on—

“That is my mother’s glory box!”

Eyes bugging, Bofur grabbed the pup by the back of his jacket and hauled him backwards. “Sorry, miss, just a mo’.” Wrenching the door open again, he hissed, “See that? It’s a welcome mat. That is where you wipe your boots, this isn’t your Mum’s house.”

Cheeks pink, Kíli obeyed the unspoken directive and made sure his boots were clear before he went back into the house; Bofur followed, and when they approached the Hobbit again, he was glad to see that Fíli was already apologizing for his brother’s mistake, and helping her set down the weapons. “We should’ve asked before assuming Hobbit customs were the same as Dwarven.”

She looked a bit flustered, but replied smoothly, “No harm done, really, so long as you ask in future.”

Fíli murmured something conciliatory just as she turned to look at Bofur and Kíli. Kíli bowed his head. “I apologize for my rudeness.”

For the first time, Bofur saw a spark of genuine amusement in her eyes; it made her look all the more like Belladonna. “I accept your apology. Though I have to wonder, did your mother drum that specific wording into you? Your brother said it just the same way.”

Both boys shivered. “You don’t want to know.”

Kíli repeated fervently, “You really don’t.”

Nodding respectfully to her, both boys filed past, towards the cacophony in the dining room. Bofur stayed behind, ripping a corner of his jacket off to use as a cleaning rag. She exclaimed quietly, “Oh! You don’t have to do that, I have towels I can use.”

He smiled innocently at her. “But it’s only fair that a member of the Company help you clean it, since it was a member of the Company who made the mess. Besides, this old thing’s so travel-worn, a bit of mud won’t hurt.”

All perfectly true, of course, but just as perfect for sidestepping the real reason he’d stayed behind: to try and work up the courage to talk to her.

As he’d expected, she vanished into the house only to reappear with a towel, and knelt beside him to help clean off the box. He couldn’t help glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, heart aching at how much she looked like… well… “Your mother wouldn’t have been Belladonna Took, would she?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You knew her?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she spoke, her hand twisting just as ‘Donna’s always had, and his heart twisted with it. “Years ago.”

She lowered her eyes to the box again. “It must have been before she married Father. Did you meet in the Shire?”

“No, it—” He bit back a laugh, remembering that night. “It was in Bree. I found myself in a brawl—not my fault, of course, someone else started it—and got thrown. Landed next to her chair, and she looked down at me, smirked, and said something—I can’t remember the words, exactly—about how she hoped I didn’t expect any help, since she made a point not to help idiots out of their own messes.”

“But you didn’t start the fight, of course,” she said dryly.

“Of course not.” She giggled quietly, and his smile widened. But as he watched her methodically wipe down the box, clearing the few bits his raggedy bit of cloth couldn’t, his smile fell away. “Was she happy?” The girl looked at him sharply, but there was no distaste in her face. “At the end, I mean. Was she happy?”

Jaw tight, she nodded, blinking quickly. “She missed going on adventures, but she used to say raising me was an adventure all on its own. To be honest…” She looked away from him for a moment, twisting the towel in her hands. “To be more honest than I probably should be, I don’t think she ever loved Father as much as he loved her.” The words struck him like a mattock to the chest; he couldn’t help but flinch back. “Not in the same way, that is. He was her best friend, I’ve never doubted that, but…” Shaking her head in the same rapid, thought-clearing way as her mother, she wiped down the box one last time. “But she was happy. Toward the end, I think she started to quiet, although none of us knew what was coming. She just seemed more… content. Peaceful. More satisfied with life in the Shire. A bit like she was falling asleep for months before she actually went to sleep.”

Distantly, he remembered ‘Donna calling death ‘the final sleep’ a few times; thickly, he croaked, “I’m glad.”

Glancing at him sympathetically, she held out an unused towel and stood to go. “I’m called Bella, by the way. Father said it made it easier to differentiate, since she was always ‘Donna’.”

Smiling, Bofur nearly introduced himself before remembering he already had. “Glad to know you, lass.”

Bella nodded to him and stepped away, ducking into the kitchen for a moment to compose herself. So that was her father. He was certainly kind, and from the way he’d reacted, he had truly loved her mother. A lingering suspicion she’d never wanted to acknowledge fell apart like the chaff it was, and for a moment, she allowed herself to try and imagine growing up with Bofur’s smile, Bofur’s cheery joking, rather than her Da’s quiet love.

She couldn’t. She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or not, but she couldn’t picture a different life. Perhaps because she was sure that if her mother had stayed with Bofur, she would’ve grown to be a completely different person. She’d learned so much from her Da, after all, even if she’d never shared blood with him.

Though at least now she had an idea, at least, what the ‘family obligations’ her mother had alluded to had been. Thinking of the Dwarf with a name like Bofur’s, the one with metal sticking out of his head, she shuddered. If that was why he’d had to leave, she couldn’t hold it against him.

And she couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not when he’d been so distraught over her mother. She hoped she’d done the right thing, telling him so much about Belladonna. But it helped her, to know that she’d been at peace in the last months, and she’d thought it might help him, too.

She’d already been hiding too long. Brushing non-existent wrinkles out of her skirt, she steeled herself and headed into the dining room.

Bofur still hadn’t come in, but they’d left a seat for her toward the front of the table, beside a Dwarf almost as pale as his hair. Actually, they were all bizarrely pale. She’d thought it was just Gandalf, but apparently it was at least some Dwarves, as well. The white-haired Dwarf—she thought his name was Balin—smiled as she sat down. “Mistress.”

She held back a laugh. “Bella, please. My tenants calling me ‘mistress’ is one thing, but for a guest to do it is something else entirely.”

He looked a bit surprised. “Tenants? At your age?”

Gandalf chuckled; she shot a quick glare at him. “Hobbits count wealth in land and property, although I know most Races use metal and rocks and things.” Tactfully, she ignored the dismayed exclamations. “My father inherited a good deal of property from his family, and my mother’s dowry was mostly fields and such, so I inherited enough to live comfortably on.”

One of the other older Dwarves, this one with silver hair—she knew he was one of the -ris, but she couldn’t remember if he was Dori or Ori—frowned. “You can’t mean that you’re here on your own, lass. You hardly look old en—”

Gandalf tapped him sharply on the head. “I’ll thank you not to be rude to Miss Baggins.”

“You’re being ruder than he is, Gandalf—honestly, if you even think of assaulting another one of my guests, I’ll make you sleep in the garden.” That said, she did appreciate his interruption. Turning to Dori, she kept her features pointedly cool. “I’ll assume that you simply meant to express concern. I thank you. But I am most certainly not a child—” She kicked Gandalf under the table— “and I’ll thank you to remember it. And yes, I am here on my own. I have been managing my property alone for well over a decade, and multiplying it in the doing, so I trust there will be no further insinuations about my capability?”

There were a few murmured agreements, and the dinner resumed. Bella watched with carefully-disguised curiosity as the Company ate; she’d never had as much of an appetite as a proper Hobbit, but even the largest of the Company—Bombur, she thought—didn’t eat as much as she did.

Of course, their manners were horrible. At least, horrible by Hobbit standards. Remembering the miscommunication earlier, she refrained from kicking up a fuss like she might have otherwise and instead began a mostly-theoretical discussion with Balin on the differences in their cultures. She was careful not to tell him anything that was actually secret, of course, but there was more than enough common knowledge to fill idle chatter.

Apparently everything they were doing was fit for royalty, at a Dwarven table. She couldn’t quite appreciate the effort, but she did pay close attention to what Balin said—she’d be traveling with these Dwarves for some time, so the sooner she grew used to their manners, the better.

Bofur came in a few minutes later, eyes a bit red despite how easily he smiled, and sat on her other side. The table was chaos, at least five conversations going on at once and various members of the Company occasionally abandoning the conversation beside them to chime into one taking place at the other end of the room for a few sentences or so.

Bella loved it. Overwhelming, yes; disgusting, occasionally; but welcome? Absolutely. Meals had been as lively when she was a child, but there was only so much chaos three people could make—and when her relatives came for meals, all of them had to be on their best behavior, which she’d always found overly stiff.

Now she wondered if being boisterous was a hereditary trait.

After they’d all finished, three slow, heavy knocks filled the smial. Bella didn’t really need Gandalf’s announcement to know that the final member of the Company had arrived. The Company filed into the hall as Gandalf strode toward the door, and she found herself sandwiched between Bofur and Fíli.

She only prayed they couldn’t tell she was blushing. Half the reason she’d never married—or even courted—was that she simply hadn’t been interested in boys during her tweens, but the last few years had been a different story. And Fíli was really very good-looking.

She knew there wasn’t a chance—he was a Prince, he was at least a couple decades older, and she was only a plain Halfling—but there wasn’t a harm in looking, was there?

Thorin glanced to the side—had he heard something?—but the door opened a moment later. “Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find.” As he walked in, he swept his eyes over the Company, barely noticing how they bowed or nodded to him as he did except to notice the one figure who didn’t. “I lost my way. Twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for the mark on the door.”

The girl frowned at that, her eyes narrowing at Gandalf, and Thorin focused on her. She was the Hobbit, obviously, and Thorin cursed the Hobbits’ lack of beards; it made it impossible to guess at ages. He was inclined to think she was barely past her majority, if not several years younger than that, but every Hobbit looked like that to him, especially with how plump they all were.

“So, this is the Hobbit.” Fíli and Bofur fell back at his glance, which the girl evidently hadn’t been expecting, as she immediately glanced at them. Internally, Thorin finished, ‘so this is our last hope’. “Tell me, Mistress Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

He circled her as he spoke, scrutinizing her with the same intensity he would give a guard-recruit or apprentice-smith. He was surprised to realize she was actually less plump than most of her Race, though well-fed compared to the Company. Tall, as well, and from the look of her, she was at least less idle than most. She looked toward him sharply. “Pardon me?”

“Axe or sword?” The longer he looked, the less satisfied he was. Tall for a Hobbit, muscled for a Hobbit, but still no more able to defend herself than a child, and he guessed at her answer before she gave it.

“Neither. Hobbits don’t fight.”

He stopped in front of her again, no more impressed by her hard expression than he was by her too-fine, too-soft, too-comfortable dress. She was no more a warrior than he was an Orc. “As I thought. She looks more like a barmaid than a burglar.”

Dwalin shared his smirk, but when he turned to move toward the food he could smell, Bofur’s scowl took him off guard. Still, he walked on, only to be pulled short at the girl’s low voice, clear and ringing despite the crowded hallway. “I congratulate you, Master Dwarf. You and your kin are the first people to provoke me into raising my voice in six years.”

Slowly, he turned to face her, eyes narrowing at the calculated smile on her face.

“Of course, your kin at least had the decency to apologize after offering me insult. I can guess that you aren’t the type to offer apologies easily, so I will simply say this.” She took several steps toward him, smile falling away. “Had I not already decided to accompany you on this Quest, I would have refused after receiving such an insult. Think on that, King.”

With that, she slipped past him and into the kitchen; he looked at Balin incredulously, but his advisor murmured, “There are many differences between Hobbit and Dwarf culture, it seems.”

“One of them being that you just implied she was a camp follower,” Bofur murmured.

Thorin scowled at him. “What are you talking about?”

Bofur shrugged casually, but there was still a hard edge to his expression Thorin wasn’t used to. “Used to know a Hobbit lass, more plainspoken than most. I said something similar and she knocked my head in with my own mattock. Told me while I was cleaning up the blood that Shire-Hobbits don’t have any such thing, but Bree-Hobbits have seen what Men do and brought stories back here. A lass who works at a pub is a bartender, a lass who owns a pub is a barmistress, and there’s only one occupation referred to as ‘barmaid’ in polite society.”

The girl moved into view again only to disappear into a closer doorway.

Gandalf’s tone left no room for argument. “I suggest you apologize to your host.”

Thorin glowered at him, but saw the sense in it. If Tharkûn was right, they needed this girl’s help. He couldn’t afford any chance that she would refuse to sign the contract.

When he followed the girl into what turned out to be a dining room with one place setting next to where she sat, he forced himself to grit out, “I’m told my comment was unforgivably inappropriate. I didn’t realize what it would mean.”

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. The seconds ticked by, each one dragging on, until finally, she nodded. “I accept your apology.”

Clenching his jaw, he nonetheless sat at the place set for him. “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.”

“Belladonna Took-Baggins, at yours and your family’s.”

“Miss Baggins—”

“Mistress.”

He frowned. “You have no father, no brother—”

“My mother and father have both been buried for fifteen years, and I have no siblings. I’ve been Mistress of my own property for the same amount of time.”

He nearly asked if she didn’t have a husband, either—he knew enough of Hobbits to know they tended to marry young—but held his tongue. “What has Gandalf told you of our Quest?”


	5. A Baggins By Any Other Name...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...would still be half a Took.

Gerontius regarded the boy in front of him thoughtfully. Technically, as of two days prior, he was a man, but even so, Gerontius could only think of Bungo Baggins as a boy.

That may have had something to do with the way Belladonna kept looking at him.

But regardless of his daughter’s regard for Bungo, he was a claimant, and Gerontius would treat him as fairly as anyone else. “How has Kíli been doing?”

Slump-shouldered, Bungo bobbed his head from side to side. “The same. He’s playing with Isengar.”

Gerontius sighed. “There’s been no news. And it’ll be five years in a month.”

“I know.” Bungo drew himself up, shaking his head. “I know, that’s why I’m here. Da and Mum have been talking about sending him away, to some Dwarven settlement or other.”

As gently as he could, Gerontius reminded him, “He is a Dwarf. He belongs with his own people.”

“When we still don’t know how he ended up alone with those Men? For all we know, it could have been his family who left him there! Even if his family do love him, we have no idea who or where they are.”

The sheer emotion in Bungo’s outburst was somewhat stunning, but Gerontius kept his voice even. “They’ll want him back regardless.”

“So we should just shove him out of the Shire and hope he doesn’t end up in worse circumstances? He’s fifteen!”

“And what do you propose?”

Bungo’s mouth snapped shut. He paled several shades, but he kept his head high and his shoulders square as he looked Gerontius in the eye. “I can take care of him. He’s my little brother as much as Longo and Bingo are, and he needs me. Even if my parents disown me, I have some money of my own, enough to support the two of us if we leave Hobbiton.”

Now Gerontius truly was shocked. He’d thought Bungo to be as staid as the rest of his family, despite his affection for Kíli, but clearly he had a spine after all. Risking disinheritance was bold enough, but leaving his home was another matter entirely. “You would risk that much for him?”

“Yes.” Some of the color returned to Bungo’s face as he held his ground. “He’s not aging like a Hobbit; he and Bingo are the same age, and Bingo seems even older than him than he did five years ago. He’s too young to be on his own, and he’s too young to be without his family. Losing one family was hard enough on him. If I can’t make sure he finds them again, I can at least make sure he doesn’t lose me.”

Gerontius regarded him again, this time in a new light. A moment later, the door burst open and the child in question jumped on Bungo. “Looklooklook what I made!”

Bungo laughed breathlessly. “I can’t see while you’re on my lap, Kee.”

“Oh, right.” The boy scrambled off and presented his creation to Bungo again, a rough-carved animal of some sort. “Look!”

Bungo frowned at it. “You were carving? Was an adult with you?”

“Mister Isembard was watching, but do you like it?”

“It’s lovely, Kíli, it really is. Does it have a name?”

“Yes, it’s Thorn! The biggest, scariest wolf in Erador!”

“Eriador.”

“Yeah, that!”

Gerontius had to laugh, watching them interact. Bungo certainly had a handle on the boy, and a knack for child-minding, though there was a difference between minding a child and rearing one. But he had a point. Kíli’s mannerisms were closer to how his children had been around eleven or twelve, though none of them could have produced a carving like that at that age. But five years earlier, he’d seemed to be around eight. Bungo was right, he wasn’t aging like a Hobbit.

And Gerontius wasn’t so surprised that Bungo’s parents would be looking forward to getting such an unHobbitish child away from their son and heir.

Clearing his expression, he nodded once, briskly. “You and Kíli will have a place here if your family sends him away. I cannot guarantee that there will be any legal recourse if they disown you, but I can offer you a job as caretaker of the northern fields.”

Bungo’s eyes snapped to his, Kíli falling silent as he looked between the two of them. “Thank you, Thain. I owe you a great debt.”

Gerontius refrained, valiantly, from calling for immediate payment in the form of staying bloody away from his daughter. He only inclined his head and watched them leave, and poured himself a rather large brandy.

Belladonna would just elope with him if Gerontius said anything.

Kíli frowned at his Orc doll, and gave it a half-hearted swat with his stick.

Bungo and Auntie Bella were getting married.

All Auntie Bella’s cousins kept asking him if he was alright, and he kept saying he was fine, but the more they asked, the more he didn’t know if he was. He hit the doll again, but the swing sent him off-balance. Frowning, he moved his foot forward a little and hit it again. That worked.

He’d helped Bungo build the new smial, Bag-End. He still thought that was a funny name, but now— It was Bag-End. It was for Bagginses. Not for Tooks or Dwarves.

Auntie Bella would be a Baggins after the wedding, but Kíli would still be a Dwarf.

He hadn’t even thought about that before. But it was true. He wasn’t a Hobbit, he knew that. He was a Dwarf, and his name was Kíli, and his mum’s name was Amad and his da had been gone for a long time and he didn’t remember what his name was.

His brother was Fíli, and his name wasn’t Fímri anymore, he was Fíli and he was Kíli’s brother and it didn’t matter if he didn’t have the same mum and da as Kíli, they had the same mum now and Uncle Thorin was both their uncle. Fíli was blond like Bungo and taller than Kíli, and stronger, and he got sad sometimes and Kíli didn’t understand it. He was Kíli’s brother.

But now Kíli wasn’t with his mum and uncle, like he’d been taken away because Fíli had gotten brought in.

Had their mum only wanted one son? She hadn’t been happy, the first few days that Fíli was with them, but then she had, and she’d started calling him Fíli too, and she’d given him cookies and told them both stories and let them share a bed and his favorite pillow and the toys Uncle Thorin had made him.

And then Kíli had woken up and he’d been in the woods and there hadn’t been any Dwarves there at all, just Men and they’d been huge and they’d hit him when he cried and taken away his beads. And then there had been different Men, and different Men, and he’d been moved around a lot, he thought, but he hadn’t been able to see much of anything, and then there’d been a big storm and it had rained so hard that the camp flooded and the stake Kíli had been tied to had come loose and he’d run. And he’d run and he’d run and he’d run and then he couldn’t anymore, and he’d cried for a long time, until he fell asleep.

And then he’d woken up and Auntie Bella had been there and she’d given him food and brought him to Bungo.

Bungo had lots of little siblings, two brothers and two sisters, but he’d taken care of Kíli, and played with him, and helped him scare off all the monsters under the bed and in the closets.He’d been like a big brother, or like an uncle, like Uncle Thorin, and it hadn’t been so scary when Bungo was there.

But Bungo had left his parents because of Kíli. He’d said lots of times that it wasn’t Kíli’s fault, but Kíli still felt guilty. They were his parents, his mum and da, and he didn’t even talk to them anymore, and it was because of Kíli.

He said that he and Kíli were family, but now he and Auntie Bella would be a family, and maybe they would be a mum and da soon. Hobbits had lots and lots of kids.

Why would they want Kíli around if his real mum hadn’t?

He swung at the Orc doll, but everything was blurry and he missed, swinging off-balance so hard that he fell over. Gut and eyes burning, he threw the stick as hard as he could, not caring when he heard it break, not caring when he heard a bunch of birds fly away. Grabbing the Orc doll, he threw that, too, even harder than he’d thrown the stick, and then he sat down again, stomach all quivery. He hid his face in his arms and curled up tighter. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want more people asking if he was alright.

He just wanted to stay with Bungo.

It was past dinnertime when he heard someone calling for him.

He curled up tighter. He didn’t want to be found.

But they kept calling, and he realized it was Bungo and Auntie Bella together.

He just curled up tighter. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t.

But they did find him, Bungo pulling him in for a hug like he was still a little kid, and he wasn’t, he was almost eighteen! But he hugged Bungo back, shaking as he tried not to cry.

Someone tapped his arm, and he peeked out to see Auntie Bella holding out his Orc doll with a smile. She looked sad. “I think you dropped this.”

Sniffling, Kíli took it again, and shook his head.

Bungo’s hold tightened a little. “Kíli?”

“I threw it,” Kíli confessed in a whisper. As soon as he said it, he couldn’t keep from crying any longer, and buried his face in Bungo’s chest. “Don’t make me go! I don’t want to go, I don’t ever want to go!”

Auntie Bella’s hand rubbed his back, but he still couldn’t stop crying. “Kíli, what are you talking about? Has someone been telling you that you’ll have to leave the Shire?”

He shook his head, trying to answer, but he couldn’t even understand himself, he was crying so hard.

Bungo set his chin on top of Kíli’s head, shushing him quietly. “It’s all right, Kíli, you’ll never have to leave us if you don’t want to. If anyone says otherwise, tell me and I’ll kick them for you.”

Kíli laughed at that, a wet giggle that bubbled in his chest like soap. “No, you won’t, you never ever kick anyone.”

Bungo sounded like he was making one of those funny, ‘I’m so important’ Hobbit faces. “I shall indeed, as soon as someone truly deserves a proper Baggins kick up the backside—”

“Bungo!” Auntie Bella sounded like she was laughing, even if she was scolding Bungo at the same time.

“—which anyone who tries to tell you that you don’t belong with us or that you don’t have a home with us will. If anyone tells you something like that, Kíli, I promise I will kick them very hard indeed.”

Breath still hitching, Kíli rubbed his nose on Bungo’s shirt and shook his head. “No one said that stuff to me. But—”

All that left him was a hiccup. Still rubbing his back, Auntie Bella prompted gently, “But what, Kíli?”

He almost started really crying again. He did fist his hands a bit harder in Bungo’s shirt. “But you’re going to have babies and I’m a Dwarf and you’re a family and babies are important and I’m not a Hobbit and I want to stay with you forever and ever and ever and ever and—”

His voice gave out as he cried, harder than before.

After a long time, he stopped, still sniffling. Bungo sniffled, too, and squeezed him. “Come on, Kíli. You’re a little too big for me to carry back to the smial.”

Auntie Bella let go of him—he hadn’t noticed when she hugged him, too, but now he was cold without her—and helped him stand up from Bungo. But both of them took one of his hands.

Kíli kept his eyes on the path as they walked, knowing that Bungo and Auntie Bella couldn’t see so well in the dark as he could. “Now, Kíli—”

Kíli sniffled and kept his head down, not wanting to cry again when Bungo told him that he’d have to leave after all.

“—firstly, you’re right, you’re a Dwarf and not a Hobbit, and Belladonna and I don’t care a whit. You are still my family, Kíli, and after Belladonna and I are married, you’ll be her family, too.”

“And I’m going to be so proud to call you my family, Kíli.” She squeezed his hand, but he still didn’t look up at her.

“Secondly, you’re probably right that Belladonna and I will have children. But there’s no way to know how many we’ll have or when we’ll have them.”

“What Bungo is trying to say is that it doesn’t matter how many babies he and I have or don’t have, we will always love you like you’re our own.”

Like… like his mum loved Fíli.

Sniffling, Kíli thought about it again. Maybe his mum hadn’t wanted him, but she’d chosen Fíli. Maybe Bungo and Auntie Bella would have lots of babies, but they’d chosen Kíli.

“And lastly, Kíli, I promise you that you will always be able to stay with us, for forever and ever, until you decide to go somewhere else. No one else, no one on Arda, can choose for you to leave us except you.”

Hiccuping softly, Kíli looked up at them and tried to keep his chin from shaking too much. “I can stay forever? You promise?”

Both of them smiled at him, even if Auntie Bella was the first one to drop down to her knees and hug him tight. “Promise, Kíli. Forever and ever.”

Bungo hugged both of them, kissing Kíli’s head. “We both promise.”

After a couple minutes, they started moving again, both of them holding Kíli’s hands.

He watched the path go by as they walked, swinging their hands. They wanted him to stay forever. They chose him, like his mum had chosen Fíli.

He wanted to stay with them forever. He liked the Shire, and he liked them, and he liked that they’d made him an Orc doll he could hit.

He didn’t ever want to leave.

Belladonna pursed her lips at the sight of the bow on the floor. Honestly, Kíli knew better than to just toss it aside— or he should. After nearly six years of monthly archery lessons from the Rangers in Buckland, she’d lost count of how many times she’d heard him or Bungo or one of the Rangers who taught him repeat that he was to respect his weapon as much as he did her West-Farthing crockery.

Granted, she was fairly sure that he respected his bow more, but she couldn’t rightly fault him for that. He wasn’t a Hobbit, and she and Bungo were careful to respect that.

But at twenty-six, she expected better from him.

Picking up the bow, she padded quickly to his room; he’d had his pick, even before Bag-End was finished, and for some, strange, Dwarven reason, had chosen what would’ve normally been used for storage, no windows and buried far enough in the Hill that it was nearly always chilly. She didn’t understand it at all, but one of the first things she’d learned to love about Kíli was the fact that she would never truly understand him, not really. There were a few other things she’d had to learn to love, but that was the most crucial.

Of course, for the most part, loving him was as natural as breathing, almost as easy as loving Bungo.

Almost as easy as loving their child, though she didn’t even know whether it was a boy or girl, yet. From how strongly the babe kicked, she thought a boy, but Kíli had been hoping and praying and wishing for a girl since they’d first told him she was pregnant, and she did hope that he wouldn’t be disappointed if it wasn’t. For his sake, she hoped for a girl, and for her own sake; after six years of raising a Dwarven boy, she found the idea of raising a girl rather idyllic. A little spot of peace in the chaos, tea-parties and baking between Kíli’s mock Orc-wars.

His door was ajar, but she still knocked; his hearing was better than it had been sixteen years earlier, but still nowhere near a Hobbit’s. He didn’t answer; she let herself in after a few moments anyway. “You left this in the hall, love.”

It took her a moment to spot him, curled up in the corner as he was. She had to fight a smile when she did; he didn’t look anywhere near his age, looked closer to eighteen or so Hobbitish years, and the growth spurt he’d begun to hit had already left him gangly and awkward. He looked like a tree frog, all knees and elbows jutting out. His features were still the same, though, a child’s face on an adolescent body, and at the moment, he was sulking as dreadfully as he ever had.

Setting his bow carefully on his bed, she sat just as carefully beside him; Hobbits didn’t get so large as Mannish women during the last stages of pregnancy unless they were carrying triplets or more, but she was still a bit larger than normal. “What’s wrong, love?”

His glower darkened further, and he looked away. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He more bit the words than said them, and she had to bite back another smile. She did, however, smooth his hair away from his face. He would insist on wearing it long. “Did something happen at practice?”

“Nothing happened!” Despite how angrily he’d spoken, he had yet to pull away from her hand, and she knew from long experience that he was never truly angry when he was still willing to be petted or cuddled.

But she also knew that there wasn’t much point in forcing him to speak when he didn’t feel like it.

So she sat beside him, and she waited, and she tidied his hair a bit with one hand while the other was wrapped around his shoulders. It was only a few minutes before he slumped against her, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. “Margaret Goodbody congratulated me on being a big brother soon.”

Belladonna frowned. He sounded so miserable. “Are you missing your brother?” Over the years, he’d missed—or at least expressed that he missed—his blood family less and less, but now and then it did still crop up.

But he shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. You’ll have to explain a bit more.”

Breath shaking a bit, he turned his head a bit more, hid a bit more. “I’m not going to be a big brother. I don’t know what I’ll be, but you have to have the same mum and da to be siblings, and we won’t.”

Her breath caught; he sounded even more miserable than before, but that— that would mean…

It wasn’t a conversation she’d ever intended to have without Bungo—if anything, they’d expected that he would have it without her, he and Kíli had always been closer—but she couldn’t bear to make Kíli wait until Bungo got back from visiting the tenants. Not when he sounded so wretched.

Carefully, she swept his curls back from his face; they weren’t anywhere near as wild as Hobbit curls, but they were obstinate enough that she had to hold them back to keep his face clear, the heel of her hand resting lightly on his temple. “Kíli… you can be the baby’s big brother, if you like.”

His brow furrowed, but he still didn’t look at her.

“Bungo and I… we’ve talked about it so many times, but we didn’t feel that it would be fair to you when you could still have a family out there who loves you. But he and I both see you as our son, Kíli.”

At that, he did raise his head, swollen, red-rimmed eyes meeting hers over a nose in much the same condition. He still didn’t say anything, just watching her wide-eyed, but she hadn’t expected anything else.

Holding his eyes, she cupped his cheeks in both hands, and wished there was some secret Dwarven way to show him how earnest she was. “You’re our son, Kíli. In our hearts, you are, and in our Wills, too. If you agree, we’ll adopt you officially, and you’ll be Kíli Baggins.”

Light gathering along his lower lids, his expression crumpled. “You’ll be my mum and da?”

Her own tears beginning to fall, she pulled him in for a proper hug, and pressed a kiss to his head as he clutched at her. “Of course, Kíli, we already are, you already are, you’re ours as much as the babe. Never doubt that, my love.”

They sat there for several minutes, her tears dampening his hair as his soaked her chemise, before either could wipe their eyes and move away. He didn’t move far, though, dropping to hug her around the waist, his face pressed to her abdomen.

His voice was only a muffled whisper, but she still heard him, and had to press her hand to her mouth to fight back fresh tears. “I’ll be the best big brother ever, I swear. You’re never going to be alone, or afraid, or anything. I’ll teach you to fight and hunt, and I’ll keep you safe, and no one’s ever going to take you away. No one’s ever going to make you sad. I swear, I swear on everything.”

Blinking desperately at the ceiling as she tried to keep from falling apart entirely, she held her son close as he continued whispering oaths and vows until he finally ran out of things to promise his baby sibling. By then, she was mostly composed again, and smiled warmly at him as he drew back, though she could feel how red her own eyes were. “I think this calls for cake, don’t you?”

He frowned, puzzled, though he helped her stand up from the floor. “I thought cake was only for parties.”

Laughing softly, she cupped his cheeks again and held his eyes. “Gaining a son is always cause for cake, Kíli.”

Tears building again, he visibly fought not to cry, and she pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, sending a silent, fervent apology to his mother, wherever she was. Wherever she was, she was probably missing Kíli horribly, even after so long, but Kíli was safe in the Shire, he was happy, and he was loved.

He was her son, blood or no, and she would love him as fiercely as she loved her own flesh and blood.

Bungo startled awake as thunder shook the windows. Automatically, he looked to the cradle, heart jolting in his chest to see that it was empty.

Breath short, he told himself firmly that everything was fine, Dulcibella was fine, Belladonna must have fetched her for a feeding. Lightning flashed, illuminating Belladonna in bed beside him.

Thunder crashed and his heart jolted, and he was on his feet and in the hall before he knew he was moving. They were home, they were safe, no one could have taken her—

But Bell—Kíli hadn’t called her anything else since she was born, and the rest of them had followed suit—Bell was…

She wasn’t as she should have been.

She’d been born too early, for one, a full fortnight before Belladonna was due. That was unusual enough—he’d never heard of a babe coming before their time—but she’d been born sickly and pale, as well. Buds were always delicate for the first year or so of life, that was why some families still held the tradition of not naming a babe until their first birthday, but he’d never seen one so insubstantial. But those alone only would have brought sympathy and advice from his family and neighbors.

It was the rest that brought whispers of changelings. The fact that she was born with a caul, that her ears were already more pointed than a Hobbit’s ought to be, that she’d been born under a full moon, that the birth had been so difficult on Belladonna despite how tiny Bell was. He’d lost count of how many of his family had already spoken or written to him telling him to do foolish things like brewing eggshells or putting her to sleep in a birch cradle.

Some of his tenants were beginning to whisper and avoid him when he came down the road.

But others thought the superstitions were as ridiculous as he did. She was his daughter and that was the end of it.

But he worried. Such talk would follow her for years, whether or not the supposed signs of her fae nature persisted. Her life was already going to be complicated— with him only being permitted to reconstruct the old Bag-End after giving up his birthright as firstborn of the Head of the Baggins family; with a mother most of Hobbiton thought was a witch or a fae herself; with a brother unapologetically Dwarven and called a changeling himself by the sillier of Hobbits. He wouldn’t change his daughter for anything, but he did wish that he could ease the burden she’d bear.

A murmur caught his ear, coming from the parlor. As Bungo moved closer, Kíli’s words greeted him far before his son came into view. “…on’t like the rain much, but you will. Mum and Da do, all Hobbits do, so you will too, I’d guess. I like storms like this, though. Storm like this is why I’m here with you.”

There was a quiet rustle of fabric; Bungo cleared the doorway, seeing Kíli curled up beside the window with Bell in his arms, held just the way he and Belladonna had taught him to. Bungo might have spoken, but Kíli’s next words, low and clearly only for Bell’s ears, stilled him, his heart in his throat.

“I miss my brother. He was blond like you. I thought, before, that he had hair like our Da, but your hair’s more gold than Da’s, and Fíli’s was more like that. I only had him for a year and a bit, I think, but I don’t really remember, anymore. But he was my big brother, and my friend.” He traced a finger carefully over Bell’s cheek, expression solemn. “I’m your big brother. That’s— Dwarves don’t have big families, I think. I don’t really remember, but I remember how shocked I was when I came here and saw how many kids were running around. And I remember how shocked I was to see so many girls. I don’t— I don’t know if it’s just because of why I’m your brother or if it’s a Dwarven thing, but you’re a girl and that means I’m supposed to protect you. It’s important. I’m supposed to keep you safe, and make it so you can be happy, and make sure that you never, ever feel alone or trapped.

“I miss my brother, but I don’t miss my Dwarf mum much, anymore. I don’t miss Uncle Thorin much anymore. I always will, a little, I think, but I’ve got our Mum and Da now, and you, and more uncles and aunts and cousins than I know what to do with. The Rangers are teaching me to fight, and I’ll learn to fight better than any of those Men, I’ll be a better fighter than any Dwarves, too, and I won’t let anything hurt you, or Mum or Da. Nothing’s ever going to hurt you, not while I’m around. You don’t have to be afraid of anyt…”

Eyes burning, Bungo backed quietly away. Creeping back to his and Belladonna’s room, he curled around his wife, and buried a broad, tearful smile in her hair.

Fíli stared up at the crescent moon and hugged his knees a bit tighter to his chest. The cairn he’d built shone silver in the moonlight, only small, but then, Kíli had been, too.

He’d be twenty-seven today.

He was twenty-seven today. Fíli didn’t care if Amad and Thorin and Balin and all them said that Kíli was gone. Kíli was alive, somewhere, and someday Fíli would find him.

Someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen so many 'Bilbo grows up with the Dwarves' stories on here, but what about some 'Dwarf grows up with Bilbo' versions? I do have ideas for continuing this (as with all the stories in this work), but not really enough time/motivation/energy to. So yeah, anyone who wants to take this over, usual rules apply, although with this one I would ask that you keep it Bell/Fíli, since that's what I had in mind writing this.
> 
> Also, anyone who has experience writing/working with kids, how'd I do? I'm terrible at judging my own work, but I put Kíli's (and Bungo and Belladonna's) effective ages below.
> 
> Adjusted (real) ages: Kíli, Bungo, Belladonna  
> Section I - 15 (7.5); 33 (21); 27 (17)  
> Section II - 17.5 (8.75); 36 (23); 30 (19)  
> Section III - 26 (13); 42 (26.5); 38 (24.25)  
> Section IV - 27 (13.5); 43 (27); 39 (24.75)


	6. A Durin By Any Other Name...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...would still be a good brother. (Part II of the previous)

Kíli stretched, his back cracking loudly in the quiet of the smial. Exaggerated, disgusted groans came from the study, and he snickered.

But his smile fell a moment later.

It was too quiet, with just the two of them. Nearly thirty years since the Fell Winter, and he still expected to hear their Mum and Da’s voices when he came in.

Shaking his head, he shrugged off his coat and laid it beside his bow, kicking his boots off a moment later. “Did you see someone scratched up the door? Looks like a rune.”

The silence that met that was, knowing Bell as he did, suspicious. His sister was one of the mouthiest people he knew; if she was being quiet, something was up.

It only took a few strides to reach the doorway to the study; he leaned against it, crossing his arms and ankles as he watched her scribble pen over paper, shoulders tense and head tilted away from him. “Bell. What’s going on?”

After a moment, she stilled. Taking a deep breath, she propped her elbows on the table, tapping the butt of her pen on the paper. “Gandalf swung by.”

“Gan— The Wizard?” Kíli raised his brows at her, incredulous. “He hasn’t been in the Shire for decades, what’s he doing here now?”

Bell lowered her head, still tapping her pen.

Kíli’s stomach clenched; he inhaled slowly, holding onto the control he’d built over so many years. “What did he want with you?”

His heartbeat thudded, slow and heavy. One and— Two and— Three and—

Bell’s shoulders slumped, hands stilling. “An adventure. Some sort of Quest, I don’t know exactly, he didn’t go into any detail.”

His breath left him in a gust; shaking his head, he pivoted to lean fully back against the doorframe, raking a hand through his hair. “Blood and blight.”

She had the windows open, a light breeze coming through and carrying the sounds of work and children laughing. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but it would be soon, and then the games would start, teens and Tweens daring each other to knock on Bag-End's door, or throw fruit or rocks at the walls, especially tossing birch twigs at the windows to try and call the ‘changelings’ out.

He almost couldn’t even hear her under the noise from outside. “We can’t stay here, Kíli. You know we can’t.”

His hand fell with his shoulders, a long, slow breath slipping out from clenched jaws. “No. We can’t.”

At that, she sighed as though she’d been holding her breath.

He couldn’t help but laugh softly, moving closer to hug her from behind. “You expected a long, drawn-out battle, then?”

Holding his arms around her, she knocked her head lightly against his. “You can’t blame me. I know you wouldn’t leave if you had a choice.”

“Don’t be so sure.” She twisted to frown at him; he offered a sad smile. “This place is too small for me. Even if we were both perfectly happy and accepted here, I’d be straining at the seams.”

Something flickered in her eyes, but was gone as she snorted a moment later. “Of course you would be, you giant, everywhere’s too small for you.”

“Huh, I thought I was a troll.”

“You’re a troll-giant, and you stink like one— get off!”

Laughing, he kissed her cheek while she squirmed, but released her a moment later to sit against the edge of the desk, squinting down at the papers she’d been working on. “What’s this?”

“A letter to Fortinbras, repeating that we leave the question of Bag-End’s management to him.”

“We should just leave it to Sigismond.”

“It’s Bag-End, Kíli, it has to go to a Baggins!”

He laughed with her, but even to his own ears, he sounded a bit more cruel. “Be their just desserts if we gave it to a Took.“

“Kíli.”

“Can you name a single Baggins who deserves it?”

“Drogo.”

That stilled him. “Alright, I’ll grant you that.”

Smirking, she took up her pen again. “Like I need your permission.”

“Oh, and you’re not going to give Bag-End to Drogo now?”

“I’m leaving it to Fortinbras, I told you. With a heavy recommendation to hold it in trust for Drogo.”

Snorting, he crossed his arms loosely over his stomach. “So, when are we going on this Quest?”

Echoing his snort, she gave him a flat look. “I didn’t agree to go yet— Gandalf wouldn’t tell me a bloody thing about it, I wasn’t about to commit to something I didn’t know the terms of.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Lady Baggins.”

She punched his thigh without pausing for breath. “And anyway, you haven’t agreed to go yet either, and I’m not about to force you to come along just because I want to go. But Gandalf’s coming for dinner tomorrow night and he’s bringing all the people who are actually going on the Quest and not just playing adventure-matchmaker. Honestly, twelve people and Gandalf, and you know what he’s like, if I’d turned down the ‘adventure’ he came ‘round to recruit me on, he’d have just told his questors to invade anyway and probably not even mentioned to them that I hadn’t actually agreed to feed them. But I did and we will and we’ll host them for the night, you know what the innkeeps at the Green Dragon are like, I can’t ask people who almost certainly aren’t Hobbits to put up with stuffy ‘Tonnites when there’s no real need for them to—”

She paused for an instant to breathe; Kíli cut smoothly in, “We don’t have enough rooms for thirteen Tall Folk, though.”

“We do if they’re alright pairing up, and if a couple sleep in the parlor and another couple in here, and you and I can just camp outside, it’s been ages since we did that.”

Grinning, he shook his head. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised, that’s exactly what Da would have done.”

“Nah, Da would’ve kept back his bed, or tried to. Mum would’ve been the one to drag us all outside to camp in the garden, and Da would’ve complained the whole time.”

“Right up until Mum sat in his lap and distracted him.”

“Oh, gross!” Laughing through a grimace, she shoved him away.

He laughed with her, but just moved behind her to hug her again, nuzzling his beard teasingly over her cheek; she protested through giggles, squirming around in her chair to shove at his shoulder far too lightly to mean it. “Going back to what you said in the middle of your mini-monologue—”

She snickered; he’d teased more than once that she could talk from sunup to sundown without input from anyone.

“—if you want to go, I’m going with you, and it’s not because you’re forcing me or dragging me along. You’re my sister. I’m staying beside you until you’re as safe and happy as you can be, and that is my choice.” Craning his neck so that he could hold her eyes, he gave her a deliberately playful grin, softening just how serious he was. “You’re stuck with me, Sweet-Bell, and that’s the end of that.”

Giving him a watery, grateful smile, she hugged him properly, tucking her head in his neck like she had when she was a Faunt. He hugged her back, only drawing back when she did. “So, I’ll be carrying back half the market tomorrow?”

She laughed brightly, eyes red but tears gone. “Oh, only a quarter, I’m sure, we’re aren’t hosting Hobbits!”

Bell set the pie carefully in Kíli’s hands, watching as he set it in the oven.

“Fairly sure I’m not going to drop it.”

“Well, there’s no telling.” Despite her snip, she was more concerned that the wall of the pie would burst or that she hadn’t rolled the dough thickly enough.

But nothing had gone wrong yet when Kíli closed the oven door, and she turned to the turnovers she was still shaping with a relieved sigh.

It was a few moments before she realized that she couldn’t hear Kíli chopping. “Kíli?”

He had his hands on either side of the chopping board, staring at the fruit she’d asked him to dice.

“Kee?”

“How are we going to keep it from them?” He looked to her grimly, brows furrowed. “The full moon is in two days.”

Jaw clenched, she went back to her turnovers. “I don’t know. We’ll tell them that it’s a Hobbit thing, or something. And I can wrap my hair at night— I do anyway when I go to bed, I’ll just make sure it’s covered before sunset.”

“We’ll be traveling with them for weeks, even if we only go as far as Rivendell.”

“Not at night.”

“Bell, this is serious.”

“It’s my life!” He frowned, wide-eyed, and she looked away from him, moving to stir the filling she had simmering. “And I’ll do with it what I like.”

After a moment, he sighed. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“And keeping me in—keeping us both—in the Shire would be protecting me? We need out of here. I’m willing to risk that they aren’t trustworthy.”

He didn’t reply, and they worked together in silence for several hours.

By the time they sat down for supper, it was long past dark and beginning to be too late to expect visitors at all. A question asking why he thought they hadn’t come was on the tip of her tongue, but the silence was oppressive.

She hated silence. The only thing worse than silence was the cold.

Before she could find a way to break it or even begin to eat, the doorbell rang. Exchanging a glance with Kíli, she stood and moved toward the door, only to freeze, half-turning back toward the oven. “The pie— it’s probably ready, I—”

“You answer the door, I’ll pull the pie out.”

Bell stared up at Kíli as he shooed her toward the door. “But—”

“But nothing.” Reaching the hallway, he cupped her cheeks and kissed her forehead quickly. “I know sometimes it seems like I want to wrap you in cotton and not let you do anything, but I do trust you. I just worry. But I trust you and I trust Gandalf, so go and let him and his questors inside before they starve.”

Scoffing wetly, she tossed a mock-salute at him. “Yes, sir!”

He screwed up his face at her—she stuck out her tongue—and flicked the towel in his hand at her as he turned back to the kitchen. “And stay out of the moonlight!”

Rolling her eyes, she walked away, calling over her shoulder, “Yes, Da!”

Smoothing down her skirts as she walked, she peeked quickly in a mirror on the way, fluffing her curls out where they lay a bit flat after being under a scarf most of the day. As satisfied with her appearance as she could be on short notice, she moved to the door and took a quick, grounding breath before pulling the door open.

Only to nearly be squashed by the wall of Dwarves that fell through the door. She’d jumped back quickly enough not to be caught in it, but had nearly fallen anyway with how she’d flailed. Making a mental note to ask Kíli to help her practice her footwork, she raised her eyes to the doorway, unsurprised by the sight of a tall, grey, and wizened Man bending over to look in.

“Really, Gandalf, is your goal in life to make everyone around you look an absolute fool?” Shaking her head at him, she held a hand out to the nearest Dwarf, an older man with metal sticking out of his head.

He gave her an odd look, but Gandalf distracted her from asking why as she helped him clamber off the pile. “I don’t recall ever doing any such thing, my dear.”

She gave him a flat look, holding a hand out to the next, a redhead with his hair in ridiculous points. “Between this mess and blowing smoke in my face yesterday, I worry about your memory.”

He only chuckled, and she turned her back on him, giving the Dwarf who’d fallen literally at her feet her full attention as she helped him up. “I’m sorry about that. I promise my brother and I have much better manners.”

He was blond, eyes as sky-blue as her Da’s had been, with beads in his mustache, which distracted her for a long moment. When she caught herself and wrenched her eyes back to his, it was to see that he was staring at her, wide-eyed.

Well, that was a reaction she was familiar with, at least.

Smiling at him anyway, she turned to the others, not sure whether to be glad or dismayed that the rest had all gotten to their feet without her noticing. The oldest-looking, with both a white head of hair and beard, both styled simply, but elegantly, in a sort of Dwarven way. “The fault was ours for crowding around the door so.”

One of the others—she didn’t see which—muttered, “Bombur’s fault.”

Balin cleared his throat sharply, then smiled at her again. “Balin, son of Fundin, at your service, lass.”

He bowed, and she smiled genuinely at him, as much out of liking as from the simple relief of being on familiar ground again. “Dulcibella Baggins, at yours and your family’s.” She bobbed a curtsy, but swept a laughing glance over the assembled Dwarves as she straightened. “At all of yours, I suppose I should say.”

They laughed, as well, most of them—the blond, the one with metal in his head, and a large redhead standing beside the one with metal smiled distantly, but that was all—and called out their own introductions. It was all such merry chaos that she had to laugh, though she did do her best to put names to faces.

A brunet standing with the large redhead and the one with metal introduced all three of them as Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur, respectively, then rambled about their relation for several seconds after the rest fell silent, until Bifur smacked him. The blond turned to her with a wince. “My apologies, Bofur’s tongue runs away with him.”

She just laughed, glancing conspiratorially at Bofur. “The number of times my brother’s said the same thing about me…”

She tossed in a wink for good measure, and was glad to see the brunet laugh spiritedly.

Smiling at the sight, she looked back to the blond, deliberately keeping her eyes off his mustache. It would have been quite a bit easier if his beads weren’t at her eye level. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, Master Dwarf.”

He smiled, slightly. “I hadn’t offered it yet. Fíli, son of Dís, at your service and your family’s.”

She barely heard any of his second sentence, ears ringing with the name he’d given. “Fí… I’m sorry, this might be a— a strange question,” she heard herself stammering, but couldn’t gather herself enough to stop, “but did your name used to be Fímri?”

His head jerked back slightly at the name, and for a moment as he blinked at her, she thought that it was only a coincidence after all.

She hoped.

But his brows drew together, expression darkening into something like suspicion. “I haven’t been called that name in more than half a century. Where did you hear—”

He cut himself off as she clapped her hands over her mouth, trying desperately to keep anything from slipping out, anything more than the gasp of a sob she’d been too slow to contain.

He reached out to steady her, concern softening his looks even more than the blur in her vision. “Miss Baggins, are you al—”

She pulled away from him, breath shaking in her chest. “Kíli.” The way shock seemed to physically slam over his features at the name gave her the strength to the shout she’d meant her whisper to be. “KÍLI!”

Looking back to Fíli, she couldn’t bring herself to look away again, even hearing Kíli come in at a run. “What’s going on? What did you say to her?”

She moved forward as he did, shoving him back from attacking any of the Dwarves with one hand, not taking her eyes off of Fíli, who was now staring at Kíli as though it was the only way he could breathe. “Tell him your name.” When all he did was keep gaping at their brother, she raised her voice again, anger giving her volume she couldn’t normally achieve. “TELL HIM YOUR NAME!”

“Fímri.”

It was only a whisper, but with her hand still on Kíli’s chest, she felt the name slam into him, much as Kíli’s had into Fíli. She backed quietly away, looking between the two men as they stared at each other.

Swallowing, Fíli went on a bit more strongly, “But I haven’t been called that in years, I’m called—”

“Fíli.” Kíli didn’t bother to say anything more before all but tackling Fíli in a bear-hug as desperate and tight as any she’d ever given him. Fíli returned it, and it was all Bell could do not to cry.

Remembering their audience, she turned her eyes to Gandalf, ignoring the dumbstruck Dwarves for the moment. “Did you know?”

The Wizard met her eyes, apparently as surprised as anyone else, and shook his head. “No, Bell. If I had, I would have said something many years ago.”

As much as she wanted to shout at him, to rant and rage and do something with the burning in her chest other than sob, she believed him.

Balin began to step forward; she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t. Kíli’s been missing him for longer than I’ve been alive.”

“As has Fíli,” his voice was thick; he cleared his throat before going on, but his eyes still shone, “and a good deal more of us. We thought him dead.”

She frowned at him. “You knew him?”

But looking over the rest, she saw that some had. Dwalin, Glóin, and Óin were as affected as Balin, and even the others were watching the reunion misty-eyed.

Finally, the brothers drew apart, both laughing wetly. Kíli looked over the Dwarves again, and a slow, tentative grin spread over him as his eyes caught on one. “Mister Dwalin?”

Dwalin barked out a laugh, and moved forward to clasp Kíli’s forearms. Kíli’s hands rose to copy the hold, stars in his eyes as he stared at the taller man— and wasn’t that strange, to see that Kíli wasn’t as tall as Dwarves could get? That threw her nearly as much as seeing Dwalin slam his forehead suddenly into Kíli’s.

Shocked, her hands flew to her mouth, but Kíli only laughed, surprised and happier than she’d seen him since the Fell Winter.

One hand stayed over her mouth as she watched the scene unfold, the other falling to wrap around her waist. Kíli greeted Balin by name, and Óin and Glóin, none with quite as much affection as for Dwalin, but he knew them. He said their names like they’d been on the tip of his tongue for decades, like— Well, like they were exactly what they were.

His family.

Bifur only saw the girl go because the motion had caught his eye, but he caught her expression as she hurried away. She looked like her world had been pulled out from under her.

That was— That wasn’t how that phrase went. Any more than it was the right word to say that Kíli looked as though he were in the seventh sky.

But whatever the phrase was, it was true. Bifur hadn’t known Kíli much, only seeing him once or twice when Bifur and Bofur met Thorin at his family’s home before the full moon rose. But looking at him now, it was obvious that it was truly him. Even if he hadn’t shared more than enough scent with Balin and Dwalin, Óin and Glóin, to be their blood-kin, he was so visibly of Durin’s Line that he might have been Thorin’s natural son.

He looked well, too. As he and his kin laughed and spoke over each other, Bifur watched out of the corner of his eye, giving them a polite berth, as were his own kin and the others not so closely related to Durin’s Line. But Kíli looked well; he hadn’t wanted for food, clearly, but he wasn’t anywhere near as large as Bombur, just not as thin as the -ris. He wasn’t soft, though, or at least not as soft as a Hobbit might be; Bifur had asked Gandalf a few questions about his choice of burglar, and been worried to learn that Hobbits didn’t often wield weapons of any sort. But there was a bow by the door, in good condition and too large to be used by the girl who’d run out.

Frowning as he remembered the look on her face when she’d left, Bifur might have gone after her in another moment if Kíli hadn’t distracted him.

“Is…” He trailed off, scanning the Company.

As Kíli's face fell, Fíli told him quietly, “Thorin’s coming a bit later.”

He looked to Fíli almost disbelievingly, raising his brows in hopeful question. “Truly?” At Fíli’s nod, a shaking, fragile laugh left him. Catching himself, he stepped back, scrubbing his hands over his face before smiling broadly at them all. “I’m sorry, I’m being a horrific host. Dinner— Dinner’s ready, and waiting, it’s in the dining room— Everyone’ll have to squish a bit, fifteen’s a bit bigger than most of our dinner-parties, but there’s plenty of food.”

Balin cleared his throat quietly. “Your dinner parties, that’s yours and your wife’s?”

“What?” Kíli squinted at Balin for a moment before his brows shot up, gesturing behind himself. “What— Bell?” Face screwing up, he all but retched. “Don’t be disgusting!”

“Well, she is rather lovely.” Balin glanced at Fíli as he spoke, and Bifur stifled a snort to remember how the prince had stared at her at first; Bofur didn’t even try to keep from laughing.

If anything, Kíli screwed up his face more. “She’s my sister!”

Bifur blinked at him. Most of the Company did, for a quiet moment.

Inhaling sharply, Kíli looked to Fíli, face stricken. “Not that you aren’t—”

Fíli just clapped him on the shoulder, smiling up at his—formerly—little brother. “I’m glad you haven’t been alone.”

At that, Kíli smiled, slow and wide and grateful, and took a shaky breath. “Come on,” he glanced around the Company, “all of you,” eyes returning to Fíli, he nodded, something settling in his eyes. “Come and meet my sister, properly.”

Kíli’s gut was already in knots, torn between joy and worry and elation and dread and above all, relief that now he knew, his family had loved him and they’d missed him and they hadn’t sent him away.

But walking into the dining room and seeing no Bell, and hearing a clatter in the kitchen too quiet to be any actual work, then the worry won out. Waving Fíli in, he raised his voice enough to address the full company. “Be careful when you’re sitting down, there isn’t much room.”

Fíli caught his elbow as he turned to go. “Alright?”

Kíli nodded shortly. “Eat. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Reluctantly, Fíli took a seat, near the front, as everyone else had been filing in while the two of them stood apart, and Kíli slipped through the side way to the kitchen.

Bell was plating turnovers, shoulders shaking. Holding back a sigh, Kíli crossed to her and pulled her into a hug before she could argue.

A sharp breath left her, muffled in his chest, and she broke, sobbing silently against him. He only held her, tucking her head under his chin with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. She tried to speak, once or twice, but he just shushed her gently.

He knew.

He couldn’t not, not when he’d been there for practically every day of her life, every nightmare, every altercation or argument with neighbors or cousins that left her sobbing and furious and him wanting nothing more than to cut down half the Shire, except that it would only hurt her more. But he knew her. Almost better than he knew himself.

The idea of losing her gutted him. How much more would she be gutted now that his family had come, the family that he’d been telling her stories of since she was born, the family she knew he’d been missing since he lost them— How much would she be afraid of losing him?

At the thought, he smiled, sadly, and murmured into her hair, “Why do you think I keep telling you that you’re stuck with me? The only place I’m going is wherever you are.”

Wetly, nearly too thickly to understand, she protested, “They’re your family!”

“You are my family. You’re my sister.”

She was silent for a long moment, breathing shakily in the quiet of the kitchen. He barely heard her when she spoke. “You should go with them.”

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he tightened his arms a fraction. “I probably will.” She shook, and he hurried to finish, “They’re Gandalf’s questors, we were already planning to go with them. Now it’s just a good deal more likely. But if you decide that you don’t want to go with them after all, or only to Rivendell, I’ll stay with you.”

She scoffed wetly.

He rapped his knuckles against her back lightly. “I mean it. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if they decide to stay with us, or come back after their Quest is finished or something.”

It was a moment before he could tell if she was shaking from sobs or laughter. “Bloody stubborn Dwarves.”

Blinking hard, he smiled up at the ceiling, holding back a laugh or a sob of his own. “There’s a reason not to go for you, you’ll have to put up with twelve of me.”

A laugh burst from her, and then she was pulling away, wiping her eyes. “Yeah, they probably smell as bad as you, too.”

He flicked her arm, mock-offended. Sharing a grin with her, he nodded to the dishes plated and waiting to be taken out. “I’ll get these, you get the pie.”

She scoffed, batting his hand away. “Change your shirt, you troll, you’re covered in snot.”

“Oh, yeah, and whose fault’s that?” He caught her arm, feinting toward her to rub her nose in it—literally—but let her go when she play-shrieked. Laughing, he backed away, pointing at her face. “You’ve got something, just there— well,” shrugging, he moved his finger in a circle, widening the area he was highlighting, “it’s just your whole face, isn’t it?”

Scoffing, she chucked a scone at him. “Oh, get out!”

He obeyed, laughing, and pulled his shirt off as he went. It would only take a moment.

Fíli jolted at the shriek, glancing at the doorway to the kitchen just as Kíli backed into view, pointing at something. Drawing a circle in the air, he shrugged, brows lifting. “Well, it’s just your whole face, isn’t it?”

Something round flew at him, and he ducked it, laughing as he quit the room. Miss Baggins came through to the dining room a few moments later, eyes and nose red, but smiling as she shook her head. Attention still largely on the space where Kíli had been a few seconds prior, Fíli asked, “Everything alright?”

Setting down a plate of the same round things she’d thrown at Kíli, she snorted. “Other than my brother is a great, smelly troll and an idiot? Everything is absolutely lovely.”

The ‘great’, he couldn’t argue, and didn’t try as she disappeared again into the kitchen; the ‘smelly’, he could, to an extent. Kíli smelled of Durin’s blood, thick and strong enough that even Miss Baggins could pick up on it, apparently. But that was as far from troll-stink as Fíli could imagine; it was fire and ice and adventure and above all, home. Past that, Kíli smelled of the Hobbit-hole, and wood and feathers, and steel and stone.

He couldn’t necessarily argue the ‘idiot’, either, though he wanted to. But what stilled his tongue more than anything else, catching between his teeth and blocking more sensible speech from passing by, was the retort that if ‘everything’ was lovely, that made Miss Baggins herself beyond compare.

It was mad— she was too small, too weak, too beardless, too elfin— and yet he couldn’t stop his heart from jolting in his chest when she came into view again.

He might have sighed out of sheer relief when she slipped back into the kitchen, except that her scent lingered in the air, on the edges of the plate she’d set down beside Fíli. She shared a good deal of scent with Kíli, but with flowers and flour rather than steel and stone, ink and paper rather than wood and feathers. There was something else, something like cinnamon but not, that he couldn’t pin down.

The temptation to pull her closer so that he could get enough of a noseful to identify the scent was equal parts mortifying, horrifying, and tantalizing.

He was a prince of Durin’s Line and of Erebor. He would conduct himself accordingly.

When she came in again, Kíli was with her, and Fíli couldn’t look away from him. He looked so like Thorin. Their Amad’s eyes, but in everything else, in build and color and feature, he looked like Thorin.

The two of them were bickering quietly, about nothing in particular so far as Fíli could tell. Kíli set a pie as big as Fíli’s head on the table while Miss Baggins rearranged plates one-handed, a platter of something Fíli couldn’t see properly, but smelled delicious in her other hand.

Reflexively, he caught a pastry that fell as the platter tipped, steadying it with the back of his hand.

“—o would you—thank you, Fíli—stop being such a troll in front of our guests?”

“Oh, I’m a troll?” Even as Kíli scoffed, she was already retorting, almost too rapidly for him to follow; his eyes snapped back and forth as they bickered over his head, apparently having forgotten that anyone else was there.

“Oh, like you don’t already know that you’re a bloody—”

“—ou’re a bloody menace—”

“—oll, you’re a bloody, great, smelly troll!”

“—ch a goblin!”

Chuckling cut them both off, both of them flushing bright red as Tharkûn’s voice filled the room. “I’m glad to see that you’re as close as when you were children.”

Almost in unison, Kíli and Miss Baggins straightened up, expressions as proud and collected as Thorin ever was, and sat as serenely as a Lord and Lady in their manor. It was impressively effective despite how red they still were.

The rest of the table was almost as flushed, most of them with their fists stuffed in their mouths as their shoulders shook. Fíli just took in the scene, brows raised.

Dwalin was the first to burst out laughing, a thunderous guffaw shaking the china. Neither Kíli nor Miss Baggins jumped, though Miss Baggins closed her eyes with a quiet sigh. The rest of the Company followed suit, Bofur and Nori—predictably—loudest in their cackles.

Pitching his voice to be heard over the ruckus, he asked Kíli and Miss Baggins both, “Are there many homes so fine in the Shire? Coming here, we saw wood-and-brick homes and holes like this, but those seemed rather less smart.”

Kíli stifled a snort—badly—and looked away, shaking; Miss Baggins elbowed him, but her serene expression never faltered as she answered Fíli, “This style of home is called a ‘smial’, Master Fíli, and no, there aren’t many as fine. Da and Kíli built it together as his wedding gift to Mum.”

Still laughing faintly, Kíli scoffed. “Da built it on his own— I hammered in a few nails and picked out my room in advance, that’s all.”

“Still, you remember The Hill before Bagshot Row even existed,” she shot back.

“Infant.”

“Old man.” Even as Kíli rolled his eyes to high heaven, she looked to Fíli again. “There are other smials in the Shire as fine, but none finer, so far as I’m concerned. And none in Hobbiton.”

Smirking, Kíli interjected, “Not quite a palace, but it’s about as close as the Shire gets.”

“Kíli.”

Shooting her an easy grin, he met Fíli’s eyes again. “You’re talking to the most eligible bachelorette in the Shire, you know.”

Fíli’s cheeks warmed a fraction; Miss Baggins smacked Kíli’s arm, glowering. “What the blight are you drinking? Stop being a beast!”

Kíli shrugged, leaning back in his seat, but there was a gravity and a gravitas to his expression that didn’t quite match his tone. “Just want to make sure my sister gets the respect she deserves.”

She scowled at him; a moment later, a dull _thud_ sounded from somewhere around the window at the end of the room. A glance was enough for Fíli to see that none of the Company there had any more idea what had caused it, and even those closest to the window were looking outside, frowning.

That might not have been concerning, if Miss Baggins and Kíli hadn’t looked so grim. “You were saying about respect?”

Fíli hadn’t been meant to hear the aside, he thought, but he had, and he saw how solemnly they looked to each other. He was hard-pressed to keep from openly frowning.

There was more to this than they were letting on.

But a moment later, Miss Baggins looked to Fíli, expression open and betraying nothing of what he suspected she really felt. “But Dwarven homes must be so different from smials. Please, I’d love to hear about them— Kee doesn’t remember a thing, anymore.”

Tucking away his suspicion for the moment, Fíli smiled at both of them. “Then I’d be happy to tell you both.”

The conversation flowed easily for the rest of the meal, more and more laughter entering in as the Company finished eating and joined in. Despite the occasional _thud_ against the outside wall, it was peaceful, more so than he’d felt in years. Really, he should have expected Bofur and Nori to play up a bit of mischief, but the song still took him aback.

Kíli and Miss Baggins laughed when they realized what was happening, and danced away from the table to give the Company plenty of room to work— and then simply danced, something quick and merry and perfectly suited both to the song and to Miss Baggins’ waxing energy, Kíli more accompanying her than partnering, providing the anchor she could dance gaily around.

Still, Fíli was hard-pressed not to simply stand and stare; she was hypnotic somehow he couldn’t verbalize, several others among the Company looking to be just as caught.

No, not ‘several’, he realized. It was only the pack.

Bifur startled as the song—and the siblings’ dance—came to an end, shaking himself out of whatever that had been. Both of them laughed with the Company, him as raucously as the Dwarves, her with a voice like wind-chimes in a storm: light and airy and ringing, and wild and unpredictable as sea-winds.

Heavy thudding against the door smothered the merry atmosphere. The silence hung heavy as stone overhead, the Company falling soberly in line behind their prince.

The eldest, that is; Kíli hung back, speaking quietly with Miss Baggins for a moment before they parted ways, he toward the door, her to the kitchen.

As much as Bifur might have liked to question them, or at least to check that Miss Baggins was alright, he couldn’t. His king and commander was waiting.

Kíli strode ahead of the rest, tall and proud, but faltered a fraction at the door. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, his hand on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at Fíli with a tiny smile, and opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have big plans for this AU, can you tell?  
> Also, this is (among other things) the orphan!Fíli AU from PadBlack's More Precious Than Gold (https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823519), which you should absolutely read, if you haven't already. I did hint at that in the last chapter, but I didn't actually point it out.  
> Also-also, I love slow burn romance. Why do I keep doing insta-crushes? Granted, I don't think it's super realistic for two characters who find each other attractive *not* to crush a little bit at first before it either fades or develops into actual feelings, but still. I was trying so hard to keep Fíli focused on the whole 'brother back from the dead' thing, but no, he kept making heart-eyes at Bell.  
> Fun fact, 'what the blight' is a canon Hobbit swear. Seriously! I just finished rereading the actual books, and Samwise says 'what the blight' at one point (I think when he's talking to Gollum).


	7. Air Force Fixing SHIELD's Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And also the Army's, the Navy's, the Marines'... seriously, Air Force is Best Force. (part ii of Ghost Force)  
> Also, you really want a (self-taught) expert in extra-dimensional physics on your side in the aftermath of an alien invasion.

Danny set down lightly on the gravel, letting herself snap back to visibility as gravity returned to pulling at her. It was always strange, the first moment or two. Like getting out of a pool after ten minutes of swimming around, except more strongly than anything she thought any human could really understand.

Any other human. Fellow human. It didn’t even sound right inside her own head.

But she’d think about that later— and talk about it with Dr. Brown. She had work to do. The machine on the roof of Stark Tower was incredible, more advanced than anything she’d seen on Earth, or in the Ghost Zone. Carefully, she scanned it from top to bottom, every nook and cranny. That done, she set her phone down and began poking around inside.

“Pretty sure that SHIELD’s job.”

Smiling, she extricated her hands and turned to salute him properly. “Good afternoon, Lt. Col. Rhodes.”

Snorting, he snapped out an answering salute. “At ease, Fenton. And how many times? It’s Rhodey.”

Relaxing from a position of attention, she flashed a quick grin at him. “I just don’t want to get busted for fraternization.”

“We’re officers and I’m your mentor.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the device and phased the top layer of it. “Outta my face, Rhodey. Why are you in my face, anyway? I thought you were still in Alaska.”

“Came back to see how Tony was doing after he almost died again, came up here when JARVIS said someone was messing around with that thing.” Stepping around the device, he examined it curiously; she turned another layer or two invisible so he could get a better look. “But like I said, pretty sure that’s SHIELD’s job.”

Tracking each component to its source and noting what they interacted with, she shrugged. “President’s worried about any crossover with Ghost Zone portals, so I’m here to see how similar the tech is.”

“Extraterrestrial isn’t anything like extradimensional.”

“You know that and I know that, but no one without a degree in astrophysics, engineering, or quantum theory knows that for sure. Besides,” she shot a grin at him, “I was curious.”

Crouching beside her, he smirked. “Well, it’s not like you could disregard an order from the President.”

“Definitely not.”

For a few minutes, neither said anything, both of them absorbed in the task at hand. It really was a fascinating machine. It had been built by Dr. Selvig, she knew, but there were elements of it that didn’t seem possible. They weren’t anything she would have thought of, anyway. Even her parents wouldn’t have, and they were as off-the-wall as humans could get.

Her concentration was only broken when she heard something whining in the distance, but she rolled her eyes again with a grin almost as soon as she’d heard it. “Incoming.”

A couple seconds later, she heard him land, then the suit open. “Hands off the doomsday tech, Frozone.”

“‘Scuse you, Martyr Syndrome, I’m under orders.”

“So was Hitler.”

She snorted at the same moment as Rhodey, then shared a grin with him over the reference.

Tony crouched on her other side, opposite Rhodey, and looked over it with the same intensity as his friend. “So what are we looking at?”

“Definitely not Ghost Zone-compatible tech. If I’m understanding the setup right, this thing packs a serious punch, but it’s not made for that kind of precision.”

Rhodey frowned; Tony nodded. “Zone portal was a scalpel, this is a sledgehammer.”

“Exactly.”

Rhodey’s confusion cleared, but his frown deepened. “So the other end must have been the scope.”

Danny bit her lip, leaning back on her heels as she let it all go fully visible and tangible again. “Yeah. Which makes you wonder what could happen if they have some way to store coordinates or something.”

Tony blanched, sheer terror flashing over his face. It was gone in an instant, but she’d still seen it. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Standing, he dusted himself off blandly, but she could still see more tension in his face than there had been a few seconds before.

So could Rhodey, apparently. “Don’t do that, Tones. You’re worried about something, what is it?”

As she and Rhodey stood, Tony shrugged, the gesture a little too sharp to be casual. “All I’m worried about is a repeat of the last few days.”

She exchanged a troubled look with Rhodey, but stepped back with a real salute for him and a left-handed parody of a salute for Tony. “My work here is done. Later, Earthlings!”

With that, she phased out of visibility and took off. If she knew anything about Tony Stark, it was that he wouldn’t want to talk about whatever it was that was bothering him with her around. Besides, she had a report to write up.

JARVIS’ sensors registered an incoming object several seconds before Lt. Fenton landed on Mr. Stark’s balcony pad. She stood quite still for nearly a minute, face turned toward the nearest external security camera.

To a biological being, the internal search JARVIS conducted would have seemed instantaneous. To his perception, it took a full five picoseconds longer than it ought to find her records.

Fenton, Danielle, 1st Lt., USAF; designation: Lt. Fenton; AKA: Danny Phantom, Inviso-billie, Phantom, Ghost Girl, Ghost, Fury, etc.

Her movements as she waited were greatly reduced from other humans or Asgardians, and likewise from her behavior earlier on the roof, with Mr. Stark and Lt. Col. Rhodes. He had noted nothing outwardly unusual about her then, in keeping with her other visits to Sir’s property. Now, she blinked at approximately 1/187th the rate of a healthy human, and her breathing was significantly slower. JARVIS estimated that her oxygen requirements were less than 1/20th of any human, and less than 1/14th that of an Asgardian.

However, the rest of her readings were consistent with her other visits.

When she made no move toward the doors, he activated the nearest speaker. “Good evening, Lt. Fenton. Did you have a reason for visiting?”

She inhaled before speaking; JARVIS surmised that a larger amount of oxygen was necessary for speech than merely standing still. “I was hoping to talk to Tony. Rhodey said he was still being stubborn.”

“I do not believe Mr. Stark is expecting you.”

She raised an eyebrow, but there was no amusement in her expression that JARVIS could detect. “Betcha a thousand bucks he’s awake anyway.”

That, he could not dispute. Mr. Stark was currently in his lab, despite both Lt. Col. Rhodes’ and Miss Potts’ attempts to persuade him to sleep. He had notified Mr. Stark of Lt. Fenton’s arrival immediately, but Sir had yet to issue any instructions.

Watching the live footage in the lab, Mr. Stark sighed. “Let her in, J.”

He opened the door without any fanfare; she inclined her head, sauntering in much as Sir might have. Still, she neither sat nor availed herself of the bar, instead examining the crater on the floor, walking around it with her head tilted. After approximately two minutes, she crouched beside it, feeling the edges.

“Didn’t know you had a taste for modern art, Mrs. Muir.”

Lt. Fenton smiled, but didn’t turn to face Sir as he walked in with the same saunter she had used. “Don’t know, I think I might make an exception for this. Very Looney Tunes-esque.”

“You can almost see the Acme logo.”

Her smile widened, but only for a minute quantity of seconds JARVIS had known Miss Potts to refer to as ‘a moment’. Once the ‘moment’ passed, she stood and walked to the bar, where Sir was pouring himself a drink.

“Pick your poison.” He gestured broadly at the wall behind him, his stance shifted toward the empty glasses.

She shook her head as she sat. “Can’t get drunk. I’ve tried. And I don’t like the taste, anyway.”

Raising a brow, Sir drew a bottle of lemonade out of the refrigerator. “You sound a little jaded for someone so young, padawan. Shouldn’t you at least wait until you’re an apprentice before you start acting old as dust?”

Smirking, she accepted the offered glass, but neither drank nor spoke for several seconds. In the pause, Sir sat beside her and sipped his whiskey.

“I was fourteen, when I got my powers.” Sir froze for a fraction of a second, but resumed his normal patterns of behavior quickly. “Did Rhodey tell you that?”

He took a larger sip before answering. “No, he didn’t. I thought it was after you graduated.”

Shaking her head, she sipped her lemonade, then held the glass against her cheek; JARVIS had observed others, on previous occasions, to react to sustained contact with freezing-temperature objects with displeasure or pain, but she displayed neither. According to his sensors, the glass was decreasing in temperature. “No, I was fourteen. I’ve seen a lot of stuff since then, mostly in the first couple years of having powers. Mostly crap teenagers really shouldn’t have to deal with.”

Sir said nothing, but JARVIS detected micro-expressions of empathy, sorrow, and pain.

“The Air Force knew about all that, though. One of their requirements for me joining at all was that I talk to a therapist regularly. They made it sound like it was in case I couldn’t deal with the stress or something, but I think I knew when I signed up that it was to deal with all my baggage. Kind of a liability, in a ‘superhero’.” She lifted her free hand to signify quotation marks as she spoke. “But it helped. I can think about that stuff without feeling guilty, or angry, or like I’m the only one in the world who gets it.”

Slowly, as she spoke, she turned to look pointedly at Sir. Grimacing, he looked away, gulping down whiskey. “One lecture was enough for the day.”

“Not lecturing. Just giving you my two cents.”

“Such a difference.”

At Sir’s sarcasm, she shifted in her seat, turning to face him more fully with one elbow propped on the bar. “Tony, you know I respect you, as an inventor, as a businessman, as someone who puts everything he has into protecting people—” Sir attempted to interject, but she continued, raising her voice several decibels. “—but if you think that means I care if I hurt your feelings, you’re an idiot. You’re a grown man; you can take it. So when I say that I think you need to talk to a professional, especially when I know for a fact that you still haven’t talked to anyone about Afghanistan or everything that happened with Killian—”

He winced, strongly enough that some of the whiskey still in his glass slopped onto the bar. Despite her words, JARVIS detected micro-expressions on Lt. Fenton’s face indicating that she did, in fact, feel some degree of regret for how her words affected him.

More quietly, she continued, “But this is exactly what I mean. You can’t keep going like this.”

Sir set the glass forcefully down on the bar; more whiskey slopped over the edge. “I can do whatever the f—”

“Forever?” She held his gaze, shoulders square and jaw set. “Because things will just keep piling up. In two years, I saw people die, I saw people mutilated, I was tortured, I was almost killed, I was mind-controlled into almost killing one of my best friends— it never stops. You’re a businessman— you know that if you ignore a problem, you’ll still have to deal with it eventually, and the hundred others that piled up in the meantime.”

Sir didn’t move. JARVIS began running calculations; should he intercede? Sir generally preferred that he didn’t, unless the person in question was ‘insufferably annoying’ or actively harmful toward Sir. But the ideas she presented were largely similar to those Lt. Col. Rhodes had proposed earlier that evening.

The scenarios in which he interrupted all eventually led to a resumption of behaviors comparable to those which concerned Lt. Col. Rhodes and Lt. Fenton. Lt. Fenton spoke more logically than Lt. Col. Rhodes, presumably due to the lesser emotional connection between her and Sir, and JARVIS could not fault her reasoning.

Psychology was a field he did not understand as fully as he did fields such as those with which Sir worked. However, some patterns of behavior were predictable. Sir was a study in exceptions to general rules, but in this, JARVIS found it likely that Lt. Fenton was correct. Sir’s behavior had been significantly more erratic in the months directly following Mr. Stane’s betrayal; such unpredictability had ebbed afterward, but Sir still suffered from nightmares which had never troubled him before his abduction in Afghanistan.

The footage JARVIS had recorded of the greater Chitauri army beyond the portal was troubling, even to one such as him; he estimated a 93.2957% probability that the nightmares which had woken Sir the previous night were based largely on the sight, and an 86.7193% probability that the frequency of his nightmares overall would increase over the next several months.

The likelihood that the nightmares, distraction, or subsequent fatigue would dissipate with any relevant speed was too low to be calculated.

Lt. Fenton drank the remainder of her lemonade, then set down the glass, keeping her eyes on it rather than Sir as she spoke. “By the time I joined the Air Force, I was sleeping an hour or two a night, and still, almost every time I slept, I had some kind of nightmare. Almost every day, there would be something that for a second, I would think was some monster from my past coming back to haunt me. Now— Well, the not sleeping thing is more because of my powers than my baggage, but still, when I do sleep now, I sleep well. It sucked at first, going through everything. It made stuff worse for a little while, bringing stuff up that I’d shoved down and refused to think about. But now, it’s better. I’m better.”

Lifting her head, she stood, touching Sir’s arm lightly. “I have a huge amount of respect for you, Tony. I don’t want to see you get worn down like I was.”

Stepping toward the balcony door, she called over her shoulder, “Doesn’t matter who you talk to, but talk to someone. JARVIS, do me a solid and send the footage of this to Rhodey and Pepper?”

“I already have, Lt. Fenton.”

She smiled up at the ceiling, an affectation JARVIS had observed in several others when they addressed him. “Thanks, dude. I owe you one.” Upon reaching the door, she paused, then turned back toward Sir. “You did awesome yesterday. I don’t know if anyone’s actually said that or not, but for the record, you did. Pretty sure you did more to save New York than any of the others.”

JARVIS doubted that she was able to detect the changes in Sir’s expression, but he noted signs of shock, gratitude, confusion, and distaste.

She looked up at the ceiling again. “Send that to Rhodey and Pepper, too, please.” Opening the door, she saluted Sir as she had earlier that day, the first two fingers on her left hand tapping her temple before she flicked her hand toward Sir, already turning to go.

1.2876 seconds later, JARVIS was entirely unable to detect her.

Sir remained where he was for approximately 17.4 minutes, then crossed to the windows overlooking the city. JARVIS remained silent, as Sir’s expression was one of pensive contemplation.

After 8.2847 minutes further, he nodded. “J, start a list of qualified therapists. No one like— that one.”

“Yes, Sir. Shall I inform Miss Potts or Lt. Col. Rhodes of your decision?”

“Nah.” Smirking, he strode to the elevator. “I wanna see the looks on their faces.”

Danny stood at attention when Rhodey entered, preceding Lieutenant General O’Neill.

“At ease.”

The three of them sat, Lt. Gen. O’Neill at the head of the table, Danny and Rhodey opposite each other to his left and right.

“You’re wondering why you’re here.”

Expression carefully neutral, she nodded. “Yes, sir.”

It wasn’t as though they were meeting in his office. With her skills, she spent more time inside top-secret facilities than out of them, whether she was being briefed or debriefed. Still, this was the most secure location she’d ever been called into; she’d gone through so many layers of security, she was pretty sure even the coffee machines were classified.

Lt. Gen. O’Neill nodded to Rhodey; while he pulled files out of the briefcase, the general addressed her. “The Battle of New York was won by the Avengers, but the events leading up to it could have been prevented with better intel, or an operative better equipped to the situation.”

She couldn’t help but raise a brow at that, glancing to Rhodey. “Better equipped than Iron Man or the Black Widow?” Whatever her personal opinions of most of the Avengers, they’d gotten the job done.

But the general just gave her a withering look. “I’m not talking about blowing up buildings or seducing the Bratya. Romanoff’s only skill set is bedding and beheading, Banner and Stark aren’t military, Thor’s a foreign national—even if he was on Earth— Rogers doesn’t know the meaning of subtlety, and Barton doesn’t have the ability to handle bigger threats than a warlord. Loki set down in Germany before the Battle. You could have reached him more quickly than Rogers and Romanoff did. Could you have neutralized him more quickly?”

It was a serious question; Danny blinked at him, considering what she’d seen in the Battle and what she’d read of Loki’s capabilities. “Possibly. At the very least, I could have extracted him and gotten him into custody before he could cause any harm.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “One of your abilities on record is mental manipulation.”

Wincing, she shook her head. “That’s not a good description. I can… for lack of a better word, possess people, but that doesn’t change anything about them or their state of mind. I pretend to be them until I’ve done what I need to do, and then after I… leave them, they’re disoriented, they don’t remember anything I did while I was overshadowing them, but they’re still the same people. It’s good for short-term neutralization, but that’s about it, and most of the time, it’s not worth it when there are other ways to get the job done.”

“Could you have broken Loki’s manipulation?”

Frowning, she lowered her eyes to the table, thinking. “I… don’t know. It’s possible. When another ghost is overshadowing someone, I can force them out. It’s possible that… that by taking control of someone, I could break the hold of whatever is affecting them. But the only way to test that would be to actually try it, and it would probably still depend on what kind of influence they’re under.”

“Could you have broken Loki’s control over Agent Barton and Dr. Selvig?”

“From the description of how they were snapped out of it, I think it’s very possible.”

“I’m not looking for possibilities, Lieutenant.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t tell you an absolute that I’m not absolutely sure of.”

The general just smirked. “Whether you could have or not, you’re still better equipped for Loki-level threats than any of the Avengers.” He raised a hand, forestalling any argument. “When the situation calls for something more subtle than a full-on attack. Even if it turns into a full attack, you’re still more like to walk away with all your limbs.”

Gut twisting, she made sure her posture was ramrod straight, her shoulders squared. “Sir, with all due respect, it sounds as though you’re asking me to use my abilities illegally, immorally, and in ways that violate not only other individuals’ human rights, but violate my own principles. I’m not the stupid kid I was when I first got these powers. There are lines I’m not willing to cross.”

Both senior officers stared at her, expressions hard. Lt. Gen. O’Neill spoke through a deep scowl. “Think carefully, First Lieutenant Fenton. If you refuse a direct order, that could result in a dishonorable discharge, and more likely than not, imprisonment.”

The reminder gave her pause, but only in that she hadn’t expected it to be the first rebuttal. She didn’t hesitate to reply as firmly as he had spoken. “Then I won’t resist when you have me taken into custody.”

The two men exchanged a weighty glance, then both broke into large smiles. Rhodey shook his head, grinning at her. “I told him your scruples were too good.”

“I’d have been an idiot to take you at your word.”

Danny glanced between them, not sure how to feel. “Seriously? You didn’t even try to bribe me with a promotion or anything? No threatening my family?”

Lt. Gen. O’Neill waved a hand dismissively. “We already knew you’re willing to use that specific ability when the situation called for it, we just needed to know that you wouldn’t use it willy-nilly, which you’ve shown over the last several years, anyway.”

“Besides,” Rhodey added cheerfully, “We already know your weaknesses, so if you go rogue, we’ll just throw a bunch of blood blossoms at you.”

Even knowing he was joking, Danny shuddered at the thought. “Trust me, if I needed a reason not to go dark side, that would be enough.”

With an apologetic half-grimace, he handed her one of the files. Opening it, she barely caught the handful of photos inside before they fell out completely; her graduation photo was on the top of the pile. Her eyes widened to read the papers inside. Quickly, she skimmed through.

—Superhuman Tactical Activities Response Squad (STARS)—

…for the purpose of identifying, locating, and neutralizing threats possessing abilities, characteristics, or skills beyond human capability to combat…

…comprised of one (1) or more field operative of sufficient ability, characteristics, or skills and two (2) or more handlers. Additional technicians as needed. Requirements for non-field members…

…subjects of investigation, inquiry, or engagement must be shown to pose an imminent threat or possess a record of criminal or otherwise dangerous behavior sufficient to obtain a warrant for arrest, search, or execution. Said warrant must be granted by a federal judge…

…operatives, handlers, technicians, judges, and other individuals must possess Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information security clearance. Need to Know will be conferred on assignment…

…any violation of US, international, or wartime law will result in maximum applicable punishments, up to and including execution. Up to three appeals will be permitted before final judgement is…

Glancing up at them, she looked for any sign that they were playing a prank, or that they were only asking her to give her opinion, but found none. She opened her mouth to speak, only for nothing to come out; remembering herself, she took a deep breath. “Sirs, correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem to be offering me my own Avengers.”

“No.”

She fought not to slump out of sheer relief.

“I’m telling you that you are now the field operative of a team comparable to the Avengers.”

Rhodey added, “Except that STARS will be under military oversight, under military jurisdiction, and answerable to military justice.”

“Lt. Col. Rhodes will be your leader and direct supervisor. Any potential targets, investigations, and anything else you’re going to use government resources for will go through him.”

As the general continued, she opened the next file, which held personnel records. Hers was on top, but half of it was blacked out.

“We do have a shortlist of initial missions, none of which are urgent, just reconnaissance. We don’t expect STARS to take on any missions for the next several months; the full complement hasn’t been determined yet.”

Flipping through, she stifled a snort. “I can see that.” The first half-dozen files were people she’d worked with on classified missions before, enlisted and officer alike. The next three were people she didn’t recognize, but the fourth— “Tuck!”

Rhodey grinned. “Thought you’d like that.”

She just grinned up at him, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d be considered for something like this.”

Rhodey shrugged. “He’s already familiar with your skill-set, he has experience in dealing with this sort of situation, and he’s already proven his ability to keep classified intel to himself.”

Put like that, she couldn’t argue the point, and didn’t want to. Except… Slowly, she set down Tuck’s file. “With your permission, sirs, I’d like to speak to him before making a final decision on his involvement.”

Immediately, Rhodey began to nod, but the general held up a hand, forestalling him. “Why?”

Something sour at the back of her throat, she swallowed. “There was a… situation, a— a brief one, when we were teenagers. The details should all be in our files; I remember going over it during the security interviews. Suffice it to say, he and I… We had to work through some stuff.”

“‘Some stuff’?” The general raised a critical brow. “That’s not what I expect in an official report.”

Jaw set, she only looked back at him for a moment. She and Tucker might have moved past it since, but it still hurt to think about— both how much he’d hated her for those few days, and how much he must have been hurting to make that wish in the first place. Swallowing again, she kept her voice calmly professional. “He got jealous of the fact that I had superpowers—mostly because I was showing off like a jerk—and was as much a ‘superhero’ as existed before the Avengers, and he made a wish without thinking about it. He ended up becoming a monster and I had to fight him. I reversed the wish and got him back to normal, and we both acknowledged that we were wrong. He’s not the kid he was back then.”

Gut twisting, she quietly reiterated, “But I don’t know if he’ll want to work under me again. Even if he outranked me, I don’t know that he would be satisfied with sitting on the sidelines.”

“But you think it’s possible?”

Sick feeling easing away, she smiled at Rhodey. “Yeah, I do. It would be just like old times— or it would if Sam could be involved, but with how she feels about the military, I can’t see that happening anytime soon.”

Lt. Gen. O’Neill stifled a snort. “That would be Samantha Manson, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was just arrested for the third time on charges of trespassing?”

Thinking of the pictures she’d seen of Sam at her latest ultra-recyclo-vegetarian rally, Danny hid a wince. “Yes, sir.”

“Be careful about that one, Lt. Fenton.”

“Yes, sir.”

Later, after she’d read through all the files Rhodey had brought and signed what needed to be signed—she hadn’t seen anything she found questionable, and she couldn’t deny STARS was needed, especially since any situations in Amity Park would be handled through STARS—Rhodey walked her out.

He didn’t say a word until they were in the elevator, and then too quietly to be caught by the microphones she knew were there. “Once you’ve served on the team for a little while, I’ll be turning the reins over to you. I’ll still be your supervisor, but you’ll be leading the team.”

Just as quietly, she snarked, “Leading myself, wow, such an honor.”

“There’s probably more eligible members out there than you’d expect. Recruit a few and you’ll really be a leader.”

Echoes of the Fright Knight’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m not a leader.” Too late, she realized she’d snapped at him. Jaw clenched, she sighed and softened her tone. “I do what I need to do and usually I’m the first person to realize what that is and/or be able to act on it. That doesn’t make me a leader. I’m an airman.”

“So am I.”

“You’re a hero.”

“So are you.”

She glared at him, but couldn’t respond without either being insubordinate or cavalier with information that they’d gone to pretty impressive effort to keep as classified as possible.

Tucker grinned as he opened his messages. Quickly, he sent back an _ok_ emoji, then pushed his chair back from the table so he could spin properly.

Before he’d even completed a second revolution, Danny was standing in front of him, and he hopped up to his feet, spreading his arms. “Dude! Why’d you even ask— You know _mi casa es su casa_!”

She snorted, rolling her eyes, but hugged him anyway. “Been way too long, dude.”

He shivered, but hugged her back. “Way too long,” he agreed. “Just here to hang, or here on business?”

Hesitating, she pulled slowly back. “That depends. You still have your scramblers?”

Tucker grinned. “You know it! My leadership’s working on implementing the tech into other places, too.”

“Still unbeatable?”

“After Stark— _Tony freaking Stark, dude, I worked with Tony fricking fracking Stark!_ —um, helped, yeah, not even his tech could break these encryptions.”

Slowly, she nodded. “Ok. You remember the thing with Desiree? The… the ‘you’ thing with Desiree.”

Grimacing, Tucker nodded. “That was a trip. Way too much power, way too much of a high. Not doing that again.”

“Sure?”

“Danny, come on, you know we’re past that.”

“Are you completely sure? It’s never going to happen, never in a million years?”

He might have gotten mad, but she didn’t seem worried. She seemed… intent, or something. Definitely dead serious.

Pun intended.

But he’d seen that look before. Not in years, not since it was them against the Ghost Zone, but still. Matching her seriousness, he nodded. “I’m not a kid anymore."

She searched his eyes for a long moment. Then, slowly, she grinned. “Then it’s time we took this conversation someplace a little more official.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this story is more snippets of how she fits into the MCU than any kind of coherent plot. Or at least any kind of real throughline. But it's really not realistic for her to be all over the place, fixing every mess before it starts, thus her not being (publicly) involved in fighting the Chitauri. (She was totally there and kicked butt, just invisibly.) But it is realistic (in my opinion) for the global earth-shattering that was the realization that evil aliens (and potentially evil supers) are out there, for a specialized task force to be created. And who would you want on it but the woman who spent two years defending the planet pro bono before signing up to serve officially?  
> No idea when the next part of this one will be up, but for those who have been enjoying the '...By Any Other Name' story, the next one of that will probably go up by the end of the week. Like I said in the comments earlier, that story has taken over my brain.  
> Send help. Hostages are involved.  
> (It's Fíli, he's the hostage, he's falling so hard)  
> Увидимся!  
> Oh, and P.S., for those of you who are very, very confused by the Hitler joke, go watch Soapdish. Right now. I mean it. (It's got a twenty-something RDJ in it, need I say more?)  
> (Also a youngish Kevin Kline and Sally Field.)  
> Seriously though, that movie is hilarious. Very much not PC, but hilarious.  
> P.P.S, this has nothing to do with the chapter but I had to vent for a second-- I was just updating the tags for this work and I typed in 'Fíli' so I could tag it Fíli/Bilbo and the first tag that came up was 'FÍLI/MORGANA'. AS IN FÍLI (TOLKIEN)/MORGANA (MERLIN). WHY IS THIS TAG A THING. SINCE WHEN IS THIS TAG A THING. WHERE IS THIS TAG BEING USED I NEED TO READ THESE FICS IMMEDIATELY. (If you know any good fics with this tag, let me know pretty please)


	8. An Uncle By Any Other Name...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...would still be such a freaking moron, Thorin, honestly, get it together.

Thorin barely spared a glance for the Halfling who opened the door, striding in and away from the rocks and jeers of the delinquents haunting the gate. “This is a fine place you’ve brought us to, Wizard. I only found it because of those little ‘utnrukhâs.”

Sounding caught partway between dry, wry, and disappointed, someone answered, “Yeah, they’re pains.”

Thorin frowned. That wasn’t Tharkûn’s voice. And it was too deep for a Halfling, from his experience.

Turning, his brows furrowed to see an unfamiliar Dwarf, of a height with Thorin, but a deal more broad.

No… No, not unfamiliar. He wasn’t part of the Company, but there was something about him…

He was looking back at Thorin with a deep frown not dissimilar to Thorin’s own, and strikingly like Dís’.

Too like Dís’. Too like—

Jaw tightening, Thorin turned sharply away from the stranger, finding Fíli easily in the ranks of the Company. He didn’t look happy either; perhaps the stranger had shouldered his way in on their way through the Shire or somesuch. Before Thorin could address him, a Halfling girl slipped through, intruding on the Company’s business.

“Is… everything wrapped up?” She glanced around the room, one brow raised uncertainly, but didn’t wait for an answer, looking to Thorin. "Your food’s on the table, it’s still warm. There isn’t as much variety as if you’d arrived a bit ago, but it’s all good, believe me, especially if you’re hungry, which I’m sure you must be after traveling for so long— I’m ravenous after just a walking trip, and that includes stopping for lunch or elevensies at the Green Dragon, and sometimes afternoon tea with Holman, although that’s not so often now, but the fact remains that if you’re ready to eat, I’d be happy to show you through to the dining room, and there’s your pick of drinks— the last of the summer ale is gone, but there’s still a full barrel of the hard cider, along with water, tea, red wine or white, but I wouldn’t recommend the white, honestly, it was a poor year— I told the Proudfoots to stir it, but I shouldn’t be surprised if they just left it to stand all winter, especially with the younger boys, but they’re all Proudfoots— Proudfeet?”

“Proudfeet,” the stranger affirmed, moving past Thorin without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’.

Thorin’s lip curled. Probably a Petty-Dwarf.

The girl was frowning at Thorin now, glancing up at the stranger. “Didn’t you tell him?”

Thorin scowled a bit more darkly as the stranger shook his head. “I’d have thought you’d have more manners than to speak of a man as though he weren’t in the room,” both the girl and stranger glanced sharply at him; eyes falling to her, Thorin’s lip curled a bit more, “but I suppose one can only expect so much from a Halfling.”

Without a life of war and battle, he’d have been entirely blinded by the rapidity of the motion; as it were, he still barely caught the stranger’s movement as he grabbed hold of Thorin’s collar and jerked him just far forward enough to leave him wrong-footed. Thorin grabbed the man’s wrist automatically, his other hand falling to the hilt of his sword, but there was too little space between them for him to easily draw it. The man stared Thorin coldly down,rage banked behind a dark glower that ripped away what remained of Thorin’s breath and dulled his thoughts. That was Durin’s glare.

With how utterly silent the room was, the man’s quiet voice was easily audible, and clearly a threat. “Call her that again.”

“Kíli.” Fíli had moved closer at some point; the name—aside from being a complete non-sequitur—stung, and Thorin couldn’t help a frustrated glance at his heir.

But Fíli was looking at the stranger.

Thorin’s breath caught, his heart thudding painfully in his chest as he looked back to the stranger, taking in his looks again—

Dís’ frown, Durin’s glare, he looked the right age, Mahal—

The girl laid her hand on K— the stranger’s arm, hand and voice both shaking. “Kíli, leave it.”

Her, the stranger—but he wasn’t a stranger, was he, was he?—listened to, releasing his grip on Thorin and stepping back, his glower never fading.

But it was true, wasn’t it?

Kíli was still alive and he was here, he’d been in the Shire all this time, he’d—

The full weight of it striking Thorin, his eyes fell to the girl, his breath shaking in his chest. “What have you done?” Eyes wide, she shrank back, Kíli stepping half in front of her, but Thorin barely noticed, snarling down at her from his full height. “What hoyden scheme— You dare lay your hands on a son of Durin—”

Kíli lunged forward; before he could reach Thorin, the Wizard’s voice struck like a thunderclap— and his staff struck Thorin’s head. “Enough!”

Stumbling back, Thorin snarled up at the Wizard; Gandalf hit him again.

Though not so thunderous, the girl’s icy voice still filled the room well enough. “If you’re all quite finished hitting each other?”

She ducked under Kíli’s arm, turning to face him fully; Thorin heard her murmuring, but even for his hearing, it was too low to make out. Whatever she said, it was enough that Kíli turned on his heel and stalked further into the hole, Dwalin and Ori following him after a moment. Turning again, she stared up at Thorin, a distinct sheen in her eyes.

He quashed his discomfort with having driven a girl to tears; she’d stolen his flesh and blood.

But she smiled, cold as Balin when he was truly angry; Fíli was flanking her, a bit too close for Thorin’s comfort, but he couldn’t spare much thought for that when this witch had stolen his sister-son and—

“I do hope you’re satisfied, Thorin.” He blinked; he hadn’t introduced himself. Her smile widened, though it didn’t warm in the slightest. “I think you’ve cured Kíli quite thoroughly of his hero worship. I grew up hearing stories of you from him, though I’m beginning to think that either his memory was flawed, or that you have fallen very far from the great man he knew as a child.” Her eyes were still shining; Fíli shifted his weight, all the better to defend her. She tilted her head toward him, but her eyes never left Thorin. “Regardless, your dinner is in the dining room, as I said. I think perhaps you should sit down to it before it cools.”

She turned to go, paused, and turned back, smile falling away. “Despite your own lack of manners in neither asking my name nor introducing yourself, I’d rather not dance around it all night. Dulcibella Baggins, at your family’s service.” Her brow quirked. “Whether I’m at yours is yet to be seen.”

Biting back a growl, he kept his voice carefully low. “Miss Baggins—”

“Mistress Baggins, if you will.” She smiled again, just as coldly as before, or more so. “I’m the main proprietress of Bag-End and her associated fields, business, and property. Mistress Baggins, Esquire, if you’d care to be properly formal.”

After a beat, she glanced around the rest of the Company, smile softening into something actually genuine. “You’re all free to call me Miss Baggins or Bell, of course. No one uses my full name.”

Dori stepped out to offer her a shallow bow and his arm. “That’s quite generous of you, Miss Baggins. Do you think there’s any tea left in the kitchen?”

She took his arm with a laugh, turning her back on Thorin and the rest. “Master Dori, I assure you, there is always tea in Bag-End’s kitchen.”

Thorin stared at her retreating back for several moments, only turning to Fíli when he thought he might be able to speak without biting either someone’s head or his own tongue off. “What, by Mahal’s thrice-soiled loincloth, has been going on here?”

Bifur couldn’t disobey his commander, but he could stand with Fíli as the prince made his opinion of his uncle’s behavior clear enough.

“…was not held against his will or tricked into staying, Uncle. The two of them are brother and sister, and clearly protective of each other— Mahal, Thorin, she was the one to realize that we were his family, and she not only told us, she brought him in specifically to tell him. She won’t stop us from reuniting with him, but that’s assuming he even wants to, after that display.”

Thorin hadn’t stopped glowering since he recognized Kíli, but that was starting to falter in the face of Fíli’s obstinance; Bifur was proud of the boy, standing up to his uncle the way he was. As his immediate heir and closest kin, he was probably the only one of the pack who could have stood his ground as he had, though Balin was flanking him to offer whatever support necessary.

Sighing, Fíli softened his tone, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “He’s still Kíli, Uncle. He remembered most of us, recognized Dwalin and Balin by sight— He was looking for you earlier, was disappointed not to see you. He’s still our Kíli. But he’s also Kíli Baggins. They haven’t told us the details of how he ended up here, but he’s been here for decades, since before this house—this smial—was built. This is his home, and that was his sister that you were threatening. Are you really surprised that he reacted as strongly as he did?”

Quietly, Balin pointed out, “Had a stranger insulted Dís in your own home, you’d have relieved him of his beard, and the rest of his hair with it, if you could manage it.”

Knowing Thorin as he did—which, admittedly, was not as well as the king’s kin—Bifur had to agree. Granted, Thorin did have reasons for having such a short temper, but even so, no Dwarf would tolerate any slight to his sister, wife, or daughter.

Few Dwarves would intentionally slight any dam.

Thorin grimaced, but clapped Fíli on the shoulder, granting Balin a nod.

Bifur shared a loaded glance with Bofur and Bombur. Mahal only knew how this would go.

Fíli followed Thorin with no small measure of apprehension. Thorin was his uncle, his king, and his commander. For Thorin, he would walk straight into Smaug’s jaws. He would walk into Mordor, into the fires of Mount Doom. For Thorin, he would face the full moon every eve.

But it was Kíli at stake. They had the chance to get his little brother back from the dead, Thorin’s sister-son, a prince of Erebor, a son of Durin. One evening’s conversation wasn’t enough to know him again, but the full moon was in two nights. Fíli’s hearing was good enough to catch a conversation in an adjoining room, quiet or otherwise. He’d heard what Kíli said to her.

He’d heard Kíli tell her that he would choose her over the Company.

If Thorin didn’t at least make an effort to accept her, they would lose Kíli.

Though Fíli would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he wanted her with them for her own sake as well as their mutual brother’s. From what he’d seen of her, she’d be a worthy companion on the Quest, intelligent and capable, and a valuable asset.

…And she was also strikingly attractive, despite not being a Dwarf by any stretch of the imagination.

His reasons for wanting her to think well of hi— them may not have been entirely altruistic, but the fact remained that she was the key to recovering Kíli, the Arkenstone, and Erebor.

She and Kíli were speaking quietly in the doorway connecting the kitchen and dining room; Fíli tried not to listen in, but he heard enough before they fell silent at Thorin’s approach to know that despite her being the wounded party, she was the one advocating forgiveness.

The tangle of emotions pouring off Thorin was almost painful, bitterness and sorrow and regret and fear warring with wonder and hope as he looked between the two siblings. As small as the smial was, Thorin had still left enough room for him to bow— shallowly, but more deeply than a king ought to anyone less than an equal. Both siblings watched wide-eyed as he straightened again. “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service. I spoke without thought or understanding. For that, I apologize. But I will not apologize for speaking out of concern for my sister-son.”

Reflexively, Fíli held his breath, teeth clenching. Kíli still looked thunderous.

But Be—Miss Baggins—spoke evenly, expression hard. “I accept your apology. Now, if you’ll do us both the service of respecting Hobbit customs, we never like to discuss business while anyone is still hungry. Please,” she gestured to the head of the table, where a full plate and a mug waited for Thorin. “Master Dori suggested the cider might suit. If you would like something else, or if you’d like a refill or to try something else, please just ask.”

Jaw slackening, Fíli struggled not to let his expression betray a thing; he’d half expected her to shout or rage, but this was worse.

This was politics. This was more calculated than Balin at his best— if Thorin did anything but graciously accept, he’d make himself a mannerless fool, and give her an opening to refuse the Quest.

After a long, tense moment—B— Miss Baggins remained relaxed and patiently waited—Thorin inclined his head. “Perhaps while I eat, you both could relate the turn of events that led to this reunion.”

It wasn’t the most graceful request, but Fíli wasn’t sure there _was_ any graceful way to say ‘I’d like to know how my dead nephew wound up alive and here’. Kíli’s expression darkened further, but after a pointed glance from his sister, he nodded. “Excuse me.”

He slipped out through the kitchen; Miss Baggins motioned for the rest of the Company to resume their seats at the table. “Our Da kept careful records of what Kíli told him when he first arrived in the Shire. Kíli and I have compiled the information in the last several years.”

There had barely been room for everyone at the table before Thorin arrived; thinking quickly, Fíli settled against the doorframe opposite Miss Baggins, dismissing Dwalin’s silent offer of his chair. Bell— Miss Baggins glanced to him, eyes softening for a moment into what looked to be genuine curiosity. Not sure how to handle the situation—Hobbit etiquette seemed to be more delicate than Dwarven—he only looked back at her. Her eyes swept over the room before returning to him, the corner of her mouth lifting into a puzzled smile.

Kíli returned with a small journal, leaning casually against the doorframe beside his sister, and crossed his ankles as he flipped open the book. Miss Baggins glanced to him, then over Fíli, then stifled a laugh; puzzled, Fíli looked down at himself, and realized that he was standing just the same way as their brother. Kíli hadn’t so much as glanced at him, and Fíli hadn’t predicted this, hadn’t even thought of it.

After a moment’s thought, he realized it was the same way his and Kíli’s amad stood now and then, and Thorin and Dwalin, as well.

Gandalf, seated on Thorin’s left, cleared his throat lightly. “Now, dear boy, my dear, if you wouldn’t mind refreshing an old man’s memory?”

Miss Baggins raised a brow at him, pairing feigned surprise with a dry drawl. “Is that an admission of senility I’m hearing?”

Kíli snorted quietly, smirking. “Don’t start, you two.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean, dear boy.”

Miss Baggins just grinned.

Fíli was having a bit of a hard time looking away from that smile.

Kíli’s voice pulled his attention away, in time to avoid Miss Baggins noticing, but not, Fíli dreaded, before half the Company had seen. “‘Thirteenth of Thrimidge, 1274, start living with the Baggins.’” While Fíli stared in complete bewilderment, Kíli grumbled, “Why’d we write all these in Shire-Reckoning?”

Primly, Miss Baggins took the journal from him. “Just because you can’t do maths to save your life—”

“Yeah, yeah, just do the conversion.”

She glared lightly, but met Fíli’s eyes to explain, “The Shire uses a bit of a different calendar—”

"A bit?”

“—but Kíli’s never gotten the hang of switching between that and the Steward’s Reckoning. Thirteenth, 1274, that’s…” She looked at the ceiling for a moment, eyes moving as she did the sums. “…the fourth of May, 2874. But that’s when you started living with Da, not when you were found.” Flipping a few pages further back, she paused for a moment, then nodded. “April the twenty-fourth of that year. That’s when Kíli escaped.”

“Escaped?” Balin frowned at them. “From whom?” That’s what Fíli wanted to know.

Kíli only shrugged. “I don’t know. I— Well, _now_ , I don’t remember any of this, but it’s all written down. I told Da that I’d been at home, with Fíli,” he nodded to him, “and then I woke up and I was surrounded by strange Dwarves. They took my beads and cut off my braids—”

“He was very upset about that,” Miss Baggins interjected dryly, “that entry in Da’s journal says he cried for hours about it.”

There was a general murmur of agreement among the Company; both siblings glanced at each other, looking a bit surprised.

Clearing his throat, Kíli continued, flipping the pages until he found what he was looking for. “I don’t know if they sold me or just handed me off—I was too young to know what to look out for—but they passed me off to a group of Men after a few days of travel. I traveled with those Men for a time, then with another group, then a third.” His nose wrinkled as he looked at the page. “Oh, I forgot about that bit. The first two groups of Men kept me in a cage—it wasn’t comfortable, but it was large enough that I wasn’t squashed—but the third just tied my wrists together and attached the rope to a stake. During the day, they’d fasten the stake to one of their horses and make me walk until my legs gave out, and at night, they’d hammer the stake into the ground so I couldn’t get away.”

Thorin set his fists on the table, white-knuckled. He still had a fork and knife in his hands; Fíli wondered if they’d need to be hammered back into shape after Thorin finished.

He couldn’t fault him. Hearing how Kíli had been treated, he wanted to break something, too. So did the rest of the Company.

By the look of her, so did Miss Baggins.

But Kíli continued easily. “But the twenty-fourth of April, there was a huge storm. Most of the camp was washed out, and the stake was loosened enough that I was able to pull it free and run. I wasn’t paying attention to direction, so there’s no record of where I was running from— It could have been almost anywhere along the southern border of the Shire. At some point, I was too exhausted to keep going and I fell asleep.”

Miss Baggins snickered quietly. “Cried himself to sleep, he means.”

Kíli didn’t even look at her. “I wonder if they’d like to hear about your first time camping?”

By all rights, her glare should have set him alight. “I will stab you.”

Fíli had to bite back a laugh, which wasn’t made any easier when he caught Kíli’s eye; Kíli let out a rather suspicious cough, schooling his expression. “Anyway, I woke up and Mum was there— Belladonna Took. She brought me to her family’s house at first, so I could tell them what I could about where I’d come from, and then to the Baggins’ smial.”

Miss Baggins added, “The Tooks were worried that whoever took him might track him to Tuckborough. But Hobbiton isn’t quite so accepting of strangers, so it would be quite a bit more difficult for anyone to get to him here.”

Kíli nodded. “Mungo Baggins was the head of the Baggins family at the time, and he and his wife, Laura, were willing to take me in for a bit, especially since they had a son about my age.”

“And then ‘a bit’ turned into five years.”

“The Tooks, the Bounders, the Rangers, even the Baggins did everything they could to find my family, but…”

Miss Baggins rolled her eyes, but her smile was a bit strained. “He couldn’t remember anything useful. His home was ‘home’, his mum’s name was ‘amad’, and his brother was ‘Fíli, but he used to be Fímri, but he’s not anymore’, and no one could even figure out what direction they should be looking in.”

Dwalin swore harshly, slamming his hands on the table as though he’d stand if he had more room; Miss Baggins jumped, Kíli’s arm shooting out to shield her. “Then they should have tried harder!”

The Company roared their agreement; Fíli, Bifur, and Nori remained silent, along with Thorin, though it looked as though the cutlery in Thorin’s hands may not be recoverable after all.

Impressively, Kíli managed to make himself heard above the din. “Then you would have seen me handed back to my abductors?”

The chorus of protests was more deafening than the agreement; wincing at the volume, Fíli stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, filling the room. As the pack clapped their hands over their ears—as well as Miss Baggins, interestingly—and the rest fell abruptly silent, he snapped, “Do you want to hear him or do you want to bicker the night away? Let him speak!”

Dwalin and a few others glowered, but subsided.

Thorin glanced toward Fíli; Fíli tensed, but Thorin only offered him a tiny, terse nod.

Kíli cleared his throat, but it was Bell— Miss Baggins, who spoke first. “There’s very little Hobbits value more than children, save perhaps safety. Without being able to verify that people claiming to be his family were, in fact his family, and without being able to verify that his family weren’t the people who sold him in the first place, it was too dangerous. No one wanted to send him back into danger, and much less into a home that was anything but.”

Quietly, Thorin growled, “You had no right to keep him from his kin.”

Less quietly, she snapped, “I wasn’t even born at the time, so I’ll thank you not to accuse me of everything under the sun.”

“And none of them had any intention of keeping me away from a safe, loving home. What they were opposed to was returning me to a dangerous, hostile home.” Kíli sighed. “Which is not what I remembered. But what I didn’t and have never remembered is how I was captured to begin with. I couldn’t reassure them that my family had nothing to do with it, because for all I knew, it might have been a cousin or neighbor who took me from the house."

“It wasn’t.” Kíli and Miss Baggins looked sharply to Fíli; grimacing, he explained, “You’d been napping. Amad was with a sick neighbor, and I realized that we’d left a toy outside. I thought there’d be no harm in going to get it while you were asleep. There was…” He couldn’t say that there’d been a strange scent, that would need too much explanation. “The door was open when I came back, but I thought that waking you would only scare you, since your door was still closed. It was hours before we realized that you were gone.”

Restrained tension was clear in the lines of Kíli’s neck, eyes, and mouth, but he only nodded, holding Fíli’s eyes. Miss Baggins broke the silence, leaning against Kíli’s arm, glancing sympathetically to Fíli. “What’s happened’s happened. There’s no changing it now.”

Kíli nodded again; Fíli pretended not to notice the sheen in his eyes. “Anyway, Bungo took the brunt of caring for me. He was young enough to see me as a brother and old enough to be steady when I needed someone to be there. When five years had gone by and there was still no progress toward finding my family, Bungo’s parents began to talk of sending me away anyway. Bungo didn’t agree.”

Taking Kíli’s hand, Miss Baggins smiled. “As soon as Da came of age at Midsummer, he went to the Thain and got his agreement that Kíli wouldn’t be forced out. The Old Took ended up taking Da on when he moved out—”

“He regretted that,” Kíli snickered.

Rolling her eyes, Miss Baggins explained, “Mum was the Old Took’s daughter, and he wasn’t entirely enthused about his little girl marrying a boring Baggins.”

“Da showed him.”

“Yeah, eventually.”

“Might have taken years, but that kick…”

“I’ve heard enough gossip about it.”

Kíli shook his head, smiling at nothing. “Doesn’t do it justice.”

Miss Baggins elbowed him in the side. “Anyway, eventually Mum and Da got married and built Bag-End here as a huge f—”

“Bell.”

“…’Shove it’ to all the poncy, stuck-up—”

“ _Bell_.”

“…prats who gave Da a hard time when he chose Kíli over his inheritance.”

Balin frowned. “Inheritance?”

Miss Baggins pinked; Kíli smirked. “Oh, yeah. The Baggins family is one of the most powerful in the Shire, and one of the richest. He did have to give up his status as heir to the headship of the family, but he still inherited his fair share of Mungo’s property otherwise.”

“Anyway, it was another few years before Mum and Da officially adopted Kíli—”

“A few months before this one was born—”

“—but he’s been a Baggins ever since."

“And half a Took.”

“Well, obviously.”

The two siblings grinned broadly at each other; Fíli bit back a bittersweet smile of his own. He was glad that Kíli’d found by a family that loved him, even if he wished he’d never had to.

Miss Baggins shrugged. “And that’s about it. We’ve been here since.”

Slowly, Balin shook his head. “But why did you never come to the Ered Luin? There are other Dwarven settlements as well, closer to the Shire, wherein you might have found more of a trail.”

Kíli matched him, but the motion that was sober, dignified, on Balin was loose and careless on the prince. No less serious, though. “When I was young, it was too dangerous. I did search, once I was confident that I could handle myself, but I never found anything worth following.” Grimacing, he added, reluctance tangible in his tone, “And then I was needed here.”

Balin frowned. Miss Baggins looked as though she were trying to will the entire conversation away. Looking down at her, Kíli took her hand, brow furrowed, and murmured something Balin didn’t catch, though Bofur signed subtly to him a moment later, “There’s something he doesn’t blame her for, doesn’t want her to blame herself.”

Bifur elbowed his brother sharply; Balin left them to their quiet bickering.

Frowning, Balin met Dwalin’s gaze, seeing the same troubled concern there that he felt. What hold did this o-Khazâd have on their cousin? He was a Dwarf— he should have been with his own people, should have welcomed his uncle and king as gladly as he’d greeted his brother, no matter how foolishly Thorin had spoken.

“Anyway,” Kíli pulled their attention easily back to him, “there was only so much I could do in any case. Was I meant to wander from town to town, asking if anyone knew who my family was?” He snorted, shaking his head. “That would’ve only wasted my time, and I had more important things to do.”

Quietly, Thorin muttered, “Play in the dirt with a binjabl naith.”

Balin’s heart sank as Kíli’s jaw tightened, clearly understanding the tone, if not the words. Sharply, he corrected, “Protect my sister, you mean. Or should I have abandoned her when she needed me? I’d thought protecting women was important in Dwarven culture, but perhaps I remembered wrong.”

He was speaking through clenched teeth at the end, glaring at Thorin with venom enough to kill him where he sat. Fíli’s tone, by contrast, was mournfully gentle. “No, you didn’t.”

Gandalf cleared his throat. “Well, as you seem to have finished your supper, Thorin, perhaps we should attend to the more urgent business.”

Still leaning against Kíli’s arm, Miss Baggins spoke with a quiet dignity that put Balin in mind of Elven trickery. “Only if no one would like further refreshment. You all know what drinks are available, and there are blackberry pasties still.”

Bombur perked up, as did Bofur and Ori; smirking, Miss Baggins collected Thorin’s dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

Dwalin wasn’t inclined to wait for her to return, evidently. “What of the Dwarf-lords? Is Dain with us?”

Thorin inhaled deeply. “He is not. There will be no additions to our Company.”

The glance he gave Gandalf was neither subtle nor wise; the Wizard’s logic for needing a Halfling burglar still held true.

Still, Balin was as disappointed as the rest of the Company; the Iron Hills’ aid might have made the difference between success and failure.

“They say this Quest is ours and ours alone.”

That earned him a handful of shocked, appalled, or offended looks from the Company, and a solemn glance exchanged between Kíli and the Halfling as she returned. Looking to Gandalf, the girl drawled, “This would be the mythical Quest you refused to tell me anything about?”

Glancing at her, apparently offended, the Wizard pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. “It was not the time. But far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands,” standing, he unfolded the paper, laying it before Thorin, and Balin couldn’t breathe. Was that… “…lies a single, solitary peak.”

He pointed to Erebor on the map, to Balin’s own work; he still remembered the fever in Thrain’s eyes when he’d commanded Balin to draw it, for all that he’d never explained its purpose. Miss Baggins craned her head over the Wizard’s shoulder, Kíli moving to stand between her and Thorin as he looked it over as well. “The Lonely Mountain?”

As Glóin began his tired refrain yet again, the siblings exchanged another loaded glance, unreadable but for its solemnity. Balin hid his frown. He didn’t like how tightly-knit they seemed.

Across from him, Óin repeated, “When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”

Having a member of the Company with a touch of Sight was wise in theory, but still, Balin might have preferred someone with more sense and less pride.

Miss Baggins looked sharply at him, then back at the map, as Kíli’s brows raised. “Beast?”

“A dragon, evidently.” Dryly, Miss Baggins tapped the stylized Smaug drawn over the mountain.

Bofur nodded easily. “Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne firebreather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals.”

“Are there dragons that aren’t?” Bofur opened his mouth to answer the wry question, but Miss Baggins was already looking to the Wizard. “What exactly do you expect me to do against a bloody dragon?”

Coughing slightly, the Wizard fumbled, “Well, my dear, you would, ah, rather be serving in the capacity of a Burglar."

She was silent for a beat, staring at him. “You know perfectly well I’ve never stolen a ruddy thing in my life.” Both the Wizard and Kíli opened their mouths; before either could get a word out, she snapped, “If either one of you says a word about Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms, I will stab one of you— I don’t much care which.”

Well, she certainly had the temper of a Dwarf.

Recovering his some of his dignity, the Wizard explained, “The key is not your expertise. If Smaug still lives, he will know the scent and taste of Dwarf as well as you know your own cider. But the scent of Hobbit will puzzle him. That should buy you enough time to make your escape, should you need it.”

Kíli shook his head, brow furrowed. “You still haven’t explained what she’s meant to be stealing.”

“And I’m not convinced I smell entirely like a Hobbit, anyway— this troll stinks enough for the both of us.”

“Brat.”

“Old fart.”

“What you’ll be stealing,” they fell silent at the Wizard’s glare like naughty children, “is not for me to tell you. What matters in any case is stealth and courage, two things I know that you have in spades, my dear.”

Dwalin scoffed, shaking his head. “Courage won’t help her against a dragon, nor anything else out there. The wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.”

Kíli looked offended; Miss Baggins smiled coldly. “You’re my guest, Master Dwalin, and therefore deserving of all due courtesy. Bear in mind that from tomorrow, you will not have that protection.”

Had she been addressing anyone else, her tone might have actually managed to be threatening.

The Wizard looked a bit offended, as well. “I don’t seem to recall being shown any particular courtesy tonight.”

“I don’t seem to recall inviting you.”

“Besides,” Kíli broke in with the ease of long practice, quelling the girl with a stern glance, “you’re family, Gandalf. You know how we are.”

Both the Wizard and Miss Baggins accepted that, if reluctantly on her part. But that hurt to hear more than Kíli’s rage toward Thorin. They should have been his family, not a Halfling chit and an infuriating Wizard.

By Thorin’s clenched fists, Balin wasn’t the only one who didn’t like to hear that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin sure is good at first impressions, isn't he?  
> ‘Utnrukhâs is Khuzdûl for 'man-orcs', which is a pretty accurate description.  
> Binjabl naith is Khuzdûl for 'brainless girl', which is not.
> 
> Next update will probably be a Merlin chapter; I wasn't planning on updating this one just yet, but apparently people like it? So yeah, probably going to be moving this one to a separate story if I don't run out of steam, which is very possible. So we'll see. If you guys get a notification for an update and the chapter count is like five less than it should be, check for a separate 'By Any Other Name' work.


	9. What Uther Doesn't Know...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...makes Leon have an existential crisis.

Leon stirred slowly, wincing as his head pounded all the more strongly. It was several moments before he could stand to open his eyes, to see a—thankfully—dark storeroom. When he could lift his head, he saw that his feet were still partway out the door— which he belatedly realized he was lying on.

In bits and pieces, he remembered.

A gargoyle had thrown him, apparently hard enough to knock the door off its hinges and him out.

He’d been escorting Lord Cador back from the diplomatic trip to Alba when one of the pages had been thrown from his horse and Leon had made the decision to bring him to Gaius rather than risk a lesser healer’s skills.

He’d been in Alba for more than six months, missing Arthur’s coming of age, and apparently a good deal more, from the snatches of information he’d gotten in letters.

Gaius had already been in the middle of a makeshift triage room when Leon and the page had arrived, and Leon had gone out again almost immediately to help Arthur.

He’d been protecting Arthur when he was thrown.

Heart jolting, he lurched to his feet, only staying there because of the death grip he had on the doorframe. The world was rocking faintly under him like he was on a ship, but still, he forced himself to retrieve his sword from the ground just outside where he’d dropped it, then to move from support to support. If all he could do was provide Arthur with enough of a distraction to land the killing blow, he would do that.

But when he reached an archway that gave him a view of the courtyard, he saw no great battle. He saw Arthur—his Prince—motionless on the ground. Legs giving out, he had to lean heavily on the archway to even stay standing; the world was still rippling around him, but now that was only half due to the concussion he almost definitely had.

Arthur was dea—

A figure ran into view on the other side of the courtyard at the same moment that a gargoyle swooped down at Arthur; before Leon could call out to scare it away, the other figure raised a hand, a bit of a sharp word reaching Leon even across that distance, and a flash of gold cut through the darkness as the gargoyle burst into rubble.

For a long, long moment, everything was still. Leon’s grip on his sword tightened, though his legs yet refused to hold him.

Magic. That had been magic, here in the heart of Camelot. That sorcerer was probably the reason that Arthur was dead.

But a moment later, the figure ran forward, to Arthur, and knelt beside him. Her profile now easily visible to Leon, he frowned. She almost looked concerned.

Then Arthur stirred and Leon could breathe properly again.

Except that there was a sorceress threatening him. Leon readied himself to rush forward, to defend his prince, but another figure approaching gave him pause. The girl was small, slight enough a stiff wind could probably blow her away, and no challenge to him if he could cut her down before she could ready a spell. But another sorcerer complicated things. If he were at his best, he wouldn’t hesitate, but in his condition, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it three steps, let alone to keep Arthur from being collateral damage.

His hesitation gave the other sorcerer time to address the sorceress, his voice chilling in its mockery as only a sorcerer could manage. “Who would have believed it? You,” Leon couldn’t see the man’s sneer, but he could hear it well enough, “a sorceress.”

The sorceress had startled at his voice, and straightened up slightly, angled almost as though to keep the other sorcerer from Arthur.

The sorcerer finished, sounding almost disappointed, “And a powerful one.”

Leon’s thoughts raced, trying to find a way to send both magicians’ attention elsewhere long enough for him to get Arthur away. While he was thinking, the sorceress responded, voice shaking, “I won’t let you hurt him.”

Leon froze, staring at her. What?

The sorcerer scoffed, “And you’re going to stop me?”

Leon still wasn’t sure his ears weren’t playing tricks on him. But the girl—sorceress, he reminded himself—stood, moving a few steps away so that Arthur was to her side, not in the line of fire. She only answered the sorcerer once she came to a halt, and this time her voice was steady. “I’ll stop you.”

None of this made sense. Why was a sorceress defending Arthur? Why was she in Camelot if not to destroy it?

The sorcerer—strangely—seemed to share Leon’s thinking. He leaned forward, earnest in his scorn. “He does not deserve your loyalty. He treats you like a slave.”

With a jolt, Leon realized this must have been the peasant girl—what was her name—that Arthur had mentioned in his letters. The girl—sorceress—shook her head, a bit desperately. “That’s not true!”

The sorcerer’s scorn only deepened, as did Leon’s confusion. “He cast you aside without a moment’s thought!” It actually sounded as though the sorcerer was trying to make her see sense.

None of this made sense.

Mer— the sorceress shook her head again, more firmly. “It doesn’t matter!”

“But it must hurt so much.” The sorcerer’s tone gentled as Merlin’s fa— the sorceress’ face crumpled a fraction. “To be so put upon, so overlooked, when all the while you have such power.”

Merl— the sorceress’ expression hardened with her voice. “That’s the way it has to be.”

Leon frowned; was she trying to enchant the whole court? Some sort of long-term spell?

“Does it?” The sorceress didn’t answer the sorcerer’s challenge, and he gentled his tone again. “You are young, Merlin. Look inside yourself. You have yet to discover your true power.”

Grip tightening on his sword again, Leon couldn’t help but see how Merlin loo— the sorceress looked even more young at that, a mix of unsure and longing and hopeful that he’d have pitied on anyone else.

The sorcerer raised a hand to his own chest, earnestly. “I can help you.”

For a moment, no one spoke; Leon tried to find the strength to run forward and pull Arthur to safety, but only succeeded in nearly collapsing when he put an ounce of weight on his legs.

More worryingly, Merlin looked as though she were considering the sorcerer’s words, that altogether young look growing stronger.

“Think, Merlin,” the sorcerer reasoned, “to have the world appreciate your greatness, to have Arthur know you for what you are.”

And at that, to Leon it almost seemed that Merlin began to shine, that last offer visibly reaching her in a way that the sorcerer’s other words hadn’t. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense, but least of all, why would a sorceress want the son of Uther Pendragon, the prince and heir of Camelot, to know that she had magic?

But after a moment, she shook her head, that shine dulling under what almost looked like resolve. “That can never be.”

“It can,” the sorcerer almost pleaded. “If you join me.”

Leon’s eyes darted between the two, his heart and stomach vying for space in his throat; Merlin had destroyed a gargoyle, and this sorcerer had said that she was powerful, but he was clearly more so. If they joined forces, the Five Kingdoms and beyond would be laid waste.

And Merlin seemed to be listening.

“Together we can rule over this land. Arthur will tremble at your voice, he will kneel at your feet.”

The thought send an icy chill through Leon’s blood, and he stood a bit straighter. That would not happen while he had breath in his body. If he had to sacrifice himself to kill these two, he would.

But Merlin’s expression had hardened, and the sorcerer’s cooled, seeing something that Leon couldn’t from that distance. After another moment, Merlin shook her head, and all the uncertainty that had been in her face was gone from face and voice alike. “I don’t want that.”

The sorcerer sneered. “You’d rather be a servant?”

He didn’t sound as though he believed it. Leon didn’t believe it himself— there had to be something more to it.

But he’d heard enough false and earnest proclamations to recognize the sincerity in Merlin’s harsh reply. “Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one.”

As Leon reeled, the sorcerer drew himself up angrily. “So be it. If you will not join me, I will become you, and your power will be harnessed to my will.”

Before Leon could puzzle out what the sorcerer meant, the man seemed to seize, straightening up to turn his face to the sky as his mouth gaped open; Leon could hear him gasping for breath even as far away as he was. Reaching toward Merlin, he collapsed to the ground, and for a few moments, everything was still.

Then a thin, glowing stream of blue smoke left the sorcerer’s unmoving body and slithered toward Merlin; as it wound around her feet and began to spiral up her legs, Merlin began to speak in the tongue of magic, at first strongly, and then with visible difficulty as the smoke funneled into her mouth, nose, and ears— or at least the ear visible to Leon. When the smoke was all gone, she fell silent, shaking where she stood before falling first to her knees, then to the ground with an audible thump.

Leon couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only hold onto the archway for dear life and watch, horrorstruck, as she seized, jerking and juddering on the cobblestones. Abruptly, she stopped.

For a few moments, nothing moved.

Breathing heavily, she flopped to lie on her back, then grimaced in the moonlight, one hand fishing underneath her for a few moments before pulling out a huge gemstone, glowing the same shade of blue that the smoke had.

Merlin scoffed lightly, turning it in her hand. “Good riddance, you bloody git. Nearly brought the whole bloody keep down.” Letting it fall to her side, she twisted back— to look at Leon, he thought for a moment, but he realized quickly that she was addressing Arthur. “You better appreciate this, clotpole.” She snorted. “Who am I kidding— you probably won’t even hire me back.”

Groaning, she pushed herself upright, then to her feet; she nearly pitched over as soon as she was standing, and stumbled over to the well in the center of the courtyard. Fog began to rise from it as she leaned on the stone, and Leon held himself carefully still as she glanced all around her, eyes glowing gold.

The sound of stone moving over stone startled him into looking behind him, and his eyes widened to see a crack in the wall repairing itself as crumbs leapt up into it— almost healing itself as though it were alive. A glance was enough for him to see that a few other such shallow cracks were being repaired just in the area he could see, though the more damaged spots were left alone.

Looking to the archway he was holding onto, he realized that there were cracks there being healed, and that those cracks wouldn’t be the sort to be repaired normally. It didn’t make sense, he didn’t want to believe it, but it seemed as though she were repairing the damage that would be the most insidious, and the most likely to weaken the structure long-term.

He didn’t understand.

Gaius moved slowly into view, gaping at the scene. Heart leaping, Leon tried to call out to him—whether to warn him or to plea for aid, he wasn’t sure—only for the physician to speak first. “Merlin?”

Leon stilled, words dying in his throat. Did Gaius know?

No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t— Gaius had been at Camelot since before Leon was born, since before the Purge— he knew the evils of magic too well.

But somehow the evils of magic had warred against each other tonight, and Camelot had survived because of a sorceress.

The fog—still billowing from the well—shifted enough to reveal Merlin, standing perfectly still with her hands at her sides. For a moment, she looked actually intimidating. Even Gaius seemed to agree, watching her warily as she moved slowly forward.

Expression hard, she left the cover of the fog, and for a moment, only glared at Gaius; the old man inhaled sharply, wariness turning to dread.

Then Merlin grinned and held up the glowing stone. Both of them laughing, they embraced warmly. “Well done, my girl.”

Leon’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. Gaius knew.

Gaius knew. And he’d allowed— maybe even endorsed this.

Clenching his teeth, Leon forced himself not to move a muscle, no matter how he wanted to run; any movement now would only draw their attention to him. Would they kill him? He wasn’t sure. Not if they didn’t realize that he’d seen. If they did…

He didn’t know. He wasn’t willing to risk it. He had to bide his time, wait until it was safe to return to the keep, and then he’d raise the alarm and lead the charge after the sorceress— A sorceress at the heart of Camelot, in such a trusted position, in such close quarters with the prince, with the king, with the entire bloody court— How had this been allowed to happen? How hadn’t anyone seen it?

The two drew apart, Gaius shaking his head. “Every time I think I know the limits of your abilities, Merlin…”

Merlin smiled tightly and looked down at the stone in her hands. “Yeah, well, it almost went a bit differently. Almost didn’t have time to finish the spell.”

“Which was…” Gaius raised his brows at the petite girl. She repeated the words she’d said before, and the physician exhaled sharply. “Soul magic, Merlin? That’s dangerous business.”

“Well, what was I meant to do? He turned his soul into a bloody locust,” Merlin grumbled.

Leon stared. Sorcerers were meant to be threatening and malicious, not petulant. She sounded all of fifteen.

Gaius frowned at the stone. “And should we expect a repeat performance?”

She shook her head. “He’s sealed in now. I loosened the bindings, so leave it alone for a few years or so and he should fade away, but I wouldn’t risk damaging it before then. Might let him go again.” Abruptly, she shook her head again and stuffed the stone in her pocket. “Arthur’s alive, but I didn’t have time to check on him before.”

She moved to Arthur’s side as she spoke, Gaius following more slowly. Her eyes glowed; Leon’s throat tightened, but Gaius barely even seemed to notice. “What’s his condition?”

Leon frowned; Gaius was the trained physician, not her. But she answered confidently. “No damage to his spine or his neck, nothing to keep us from moving him.”

Gaius’ shoulders dropped at that, and his hands moved over Arthur in the familiar examination that Leon had seen him perform any number of times. “His brain?”

After a moment, Merlin groaned. “Another concussion. Bloody idiot— His brains would be leaking out his ears if he didn’t have me.”

Sternly, Gaius chided, “Less whinging, thank you.”

Despite what Leon might have expected after seeing her deal with the other sorcerer, she ducked her head immediately. “Sorry.”

Even with her head bowed, Leon could see the glow of her eyes; Arthur stirred, but that was all. The two exchanged nods, and Gaius stood with an effort. “You’d best hide before the knights get here.”

“I’ll stay until they take Arthur inside.”

“Merlin.”

“They won’t see me. I’ll be back in my cell before anyone checks the dungeons.”

Why had she been in the dungeons?

Gaius shook his head, but didn’t argue further. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re in there until Arthur’s on his feet again.”

But she only grinned at him. “Maybe I’ll actually get to rest for a change.”

Snorting, Gaius left the way he’d come. Still grinning, Merlin adjusted Arthur’s armor, tugging his undershirt higher at the collar. But after a few moments, she looked up again, looking in Gaius’ direction. Knowing Camelot’s structure as he did, Leon didn’t expect that Gaius would still be in view; it seemed he was right, as Merlin’s grin gave way to an exhaustion that seemed to press physically on her, her entire body bowing under it.

She laughed, weakly, and turned her head a fraction to look at Arthur; the angle made it easier for Leon to see her expression, to see the affection through the fatigue. “You’re lucky you’re a good man, idiot. Might have been tempted, otherwise.”

After another few moments, she pushed to her feet, swaying, and moved to crouch behind the well, fog covering her after another moment.

Frowning, Leon settled in to wait. He felt a bit stronger now than he had when he first woke, but still in no condition to take on a sorceress alone. After Arthur was taken back to the keep and Merlin took her leave, he’d follow Arthur and…

Brow furrowed, he tried to maintain his resolve. Merlin was a sorceress. Magic was illegal, and evil. By the laws of Camelot, she had to be tried, and she would be found guilty and face the pyre.

But she’d had the perfect opportunity to remove Camelot’s only heir, or to enchant him. From the sorcerer’s words—and her confirmation of them—Arthur didn’t treat her well, so Leon doubted he was enchanted yet. She tolerated imprisonment—even indefinitely—though she could obviously escape unseen. She’d been offered power beyond even Uther’s, and rejected it outright— but only when the offer had shifted from the means to gain Arthur’s respect, to the means to subject Arthur to the same sort of treatment he gave her.

Leon couldn’t call himself a humble man, but he was aware that if he were treated with any disrespect, no matter how small, he would want the perpetrator to face a punishment far outweighing his crime. Should the king or prince’s justice lessen the punishment, Leon would accept that, but if he were left to sentence his own harasser, he would deal harshly with him.

And when given that opportunity, Merlin had not only spared her harasser, but protected him.

Try as he might, Leon couldn’t find an explanation for her actions that followed the usual script. He couldn’t find a reason for her to act as she had that was evil, or wicked, or cruel.

She had powerful magic, and she had used it to defend Arthur, and Camelot.

He didn’t understand at all.

While he thought, three knights had emerged and carried Arthur to safety, while a fourth kept first lookout, then rear guard. Several moments after they disappeared, Merlin stood and darted away, in the opposite direction.

Gritting his teeth, Leon pushed off of the archway and began his trek to the keep. He managed to limp across the courtyard, but had resorted to leaning heavily on the walls by the time he reached the entrance.

Head pounding, he braced himself against the wall to hit the door; the blow didn’t have half the strength it should have, but the door opened anyway, several men rushing out to help him inside in a riot of sound and movement that only made his head ache more. He could hear people jabbering questions at him, but their voices blended together unintelligibly.

Gaius’ voice was the first to cut through the chaos. “For pity’s sake, give him a moment to breathe.” Far more quietly, after the other voices ebbed away, he continued, “Sir Leon, can you tell me what happened?”

As Gaius pried his eyes open, examining him, Leon considered the question for a moment. He could probably tell Gaius far more of what had happened than the physician would like. But for the moment, he’d hold his tongue until he could think properly. “I was struck by a gargoyle and knocked into— a storeroom, I think. When I woke, everything was still.”

Wryly, Gaius raised a brow. “Except your head, I should think. You have quite the concussion.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Gaius chucked at the dry reply and called over Gwen to help him remove Leon’s armor. He caught Gwen’s eye, but didn’t say anything; he counted her as a friend, but any concern or affection he showed her in public would be taken as evidence that they were lovers. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t attracted to her in the slightest, or that she’d once told him that he was as plain a man as she could imagine; rumors didn’t just fly at court, they sprouted legs and gills and ran the full gamut.

A glimpse of blond hair caught his eye, and he spoke before he thought. “Is that Arthur?” At Gaius’ confirmation, he added, “How is he?”

He did listen as Gaius told him, but he couldn’t help but be a bit distracted by Gwen’s blush; when had that happened? She’d always thought Arthur was a toad, same as the Lady Morgana. “As well as can be expected; he was fortunate enough to escape a concussion,” Leon had to hold back a frown; he was sure Merlin had said that he did have one, “but it’ll take time before he’s in any condition to fight otherwise.”

And he was in no danger, by how calmly the physician was speaking. A weight lifted from Leon’s chest, only to falter back down again. Could he trust Gaius’ word? He was protecting a sorceress. But this was Gaius. For Gaius to be untrustworthy— the keep itself might as well have been made of cotton fluff.

Gut in knots, Leon remained silent for the rest of the examination, and kept his thoughts to himself for the remainder of the night, though he chatted with a few of the knights. When morning came with no further attacks, the knights cautiously ventured outside to collect the bodies of the fallen. With fewer people in the room, for the first time, Leon realized that the Lady Morgana was among those helping.

She looked tired, exhausted, really, but well. It was a long moment before he could look away from her.

She looked as beautiful as the day he’d met her.

It was nearly midday before Arthur woke; Leon could at least turn his head without the world reeling, though his other wounds—bruises, mostly—were making themselves known and a deep fatigue had settled in, as Gaius refused to allow him to sleep until his concussion faded. But he was near enough to Arthur to see him easily as he stirred into consciousness.

“Gaius!” Leon didn’t bother to look at the physician, just watched as Arthur screwed up his face, lifting a hand.

“No, Sire,” Gaius pushed his hand gently back down to his side, laying his other hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You mustn’t try to rise yet.”

Blinking his eyes blearily open, Arthur frowned a bit more deeply. “What… the gargoyles—”

Eyes flying wide, he tried to sit up, only for Gwen to rush over from where she’d been hovering and help Gaius hold Arthur down. “They’re gone, Sire! Everything is quiet!”

To Leon’s surprise, Arthur subsided, looking up at Gwen with something almost… almost fond. Uther realized that Arthur was awake a moment later, and everything was chaos for several minutes. Leon was content to leave them to it, and rested his eyes as he listened.

Eventually, Gaius shooed them all away, though Leon was taken off-guard when Gaius almost immediately turned to him, performing the same examinations and tests he had been since Leon had come in. Frowning, Arthur stared at him for a few moments. “Leon, you… you were with us on the last charge?”

“I believe so, Sire.” Frowning as Gaius held a candle in front of his eye, Leon tried to focus on Arthur past it. “I was rendered unconscious for some time.”

Arthur nodded absently. After another few moments, Gaius stepped back. “It seems you’ve made a full recovery, Sir Leon. You’re free to return to your own quarters, but I expect you to come to me immediately if you feel poorly.”

Relief flooding him, Leon smiled gratefully at the physician and moved off the makeshift table to stand on his own two feet for the first time in what felt like days. Before he could take his leave, though, Arthur stilled him. “Leon, I’d appreciate it if you could do me a favor.”

A bit surprised by the lack of pompousness, Leon nodded easily. “Of course, Sire.”

Arthur actually smiled a bit, his shoulders dropping as though he’d seriously considered that Leon would refuse him. “There was a… an incident,” he hedged, “yesterday before the attacks began. My maidservant was jailed for her own protection as much as anything else. I’d like you to release her.” Expression sobering, Arthur glanced toward the door to the outside. “We’ll need all the hands we can gather to clean up the damage.”

Leon didn’t know what to say. This would be the perfect time to tell Arthur that his maidservant should stay exactly where she was, for the protection of all of Camelot, but the words wouldn’t leave his tongue. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t escape. And if she didn’t realize that anyone was onto her, she wouldn’t escalate her methods, probably.

But he hesitated a moment too long, and Arthur shook his head. “If you don’t feel able, she’ll be fine there for another day, I can just send Guinevere to check on her.”

At the thought of Gwen walking into a confrontation with a sorceress unaware, Leon’s spine stiffened. “No, Sire, I’m well enough. I’ll send her to the Castle Steward for assignment.”

Unexpectedly, Arthur shook his head. “Send her here first; she’s Gaius’ ward, he’ll want to check that she’s well before anything else.”

A bit discomfited, Leon only nodded and took his leave; he couldn’t help but notice on his way out that Gaius looked a bit relieved.

But he only walked partway down to the dungeons before ducking into an empty storeroom. What was he meant to do? She was a sorceress— could he really allow her to roam Camelot unsupervised?

But he wasn’t sure that he could sentence her without a trial. He’d seen her use magic—heard her admit to the use of it—himself, but he’d seen nothing malicious. All that he’d seen was for the benefit of Camelot, if anything.

There was something nefarious behind it, in all likelihood, but he couldn’t, in good conscience, execute a girl for being misguided. If she was truly plotting to undermine the kingdom, he’d deliver her up to the king’s justice himself. But if she had fallen into the lure of magic out of good intentions and ignorance, there was a chance she could be prevented from becoming truly irredeemable. There had to be.

She’d barely looked fifteen.

But he wouldn’t risk Camelot in the course of his investigation. Thinking quickly, he removed his shirt and turned it inside-out, then donned it again. Turning his arms, he grimaced; the seams were easily visible from his perspective, but perhaps from a distance or in lower light, they wouldn’t be. It wasn’t the best protection, but it was the most subtle, at least on short notice.

The guards around the dungeons were surprised to see him, but offered no resistance to his entry, nor to his request for the keys. The cells were largely empty, and the first few he passed that were occupied were filled by the sort of men who belonged there, and looked it.

It wasn’t until he was nearly at the last cells that he saw her, sitting against the wall facing him. She jumped to her feet as soon as he came into view, but her expression fell a moment later. “Oh. I thought you were Arthur.” Shoulders slumping, she sat down again. “Sorry, just— Bit worried.”

He didn’t respond right away, lifting the torch in his hand higher as he stepped closer. She looked up at him with what looked to be honest curiosity, eyes flicking over him as his were her. She was older, this close, though not by much; he wouldn’t put her age as anything older than nineteen, but not any younger than sixteen, he thought. That she had hair as dark as the Lady Morgana’s—and skin as light—had been obvious even in the dark, but it was only now that he saw her eyes were blue when she wasn’t doing magic. They were as light as the Lady Morgana’s, though.

But that was where the similarities ended. She was far more delicately built than the Lady, and as gangly as a colt, despite the fact that even without his armor on, she didn’t even come to his shoulder. Her features were too large for her face, her face too thin for her features, the combination leaving her forgettably plain and plainly awkward. In all regards, she was as like the Lady Morgana as a falcon was like a crow.

More troubled than before, he couldn’t force himself to speak. She broke the silence herself, frowning deeply. “Sorry, but who are you? I’ve never seen you before, and I’ve been in Camelot more than long enough to know people’s faces.”

At that, he scoffed lightly, content at least in the surety that she didn’t suspect him. “I’ve probably been in Camelot longer than you’ve been alive. Just not for the last few months.”

He opened his mouth to continue, but her eyes lit up and she stood in a quick move that startled him into staying silent. “You were part of the delegation to Alba?”

How did she…? Puzzled, he nodded.

She grinned widely, no hint of artifice in her face. “I didn’t realize everyone was back yet! You aren’t due for days!” He opened his mouth to explain, but she didn’t give him a chance, bouncing on her feet. “Is Alba cold? It must be, with all those mountains. Is it beautiful? I’ve heard it’s beautiful. Do they really speak another language entirely there?”

Bemused, he cut her off before she could chatter the night away. “Do you always answer your own questions?”

“I haven’t answered anything, and neither have you yet.” He blinked at her; he’d half expected her to take the chide with the same air as she had Gaius’, but instead she’d displayed a bit of wit, and more backbone than he’d expect either from a servant or a sorceress trying not to draw attention to herself.

Even now, she was staring at him challengingly, brows raised as she waited for him to answer. Bemusement only growing, he replied simply, “As cold in the summer as Camelot in the winter, not to my tastes of beauty, and whilst they do speak their own language, all the citizenry I encountered spoke the southern tongue fluently.”

Smiling slightly, she leaned back, holding onto the bars. “Thank you.” Abruptly, she frowned. “What are you doing here?” Before Leon could answer, she shook her head. “Sorry, that was rude. I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can help you with. I don’t want to keep you from your business, especially if your master’s anything like mine.”

She finished with an apologetic smile that truly looked genuine. About to answer, Leon stopped and frowned at her. “My master?”

She nodded easily, rocking on her heels. “There are kind knights and cruel ones, I know. I definitely got lucky; Arthur’s an utter prat sometimes, but he’s a good man. Not like the ones that’ll beat their servants, or anything. Oh!” She straightened, lighting up again; Leon was starting to get a headache from how quickly she darted from one thought to another. “You must know Sir Leon!”

He blinked at her.

Grimacing, she bobbed her head. “Well, not ‘know’, I suppose, but I know what it’s like when there’s a whole caravan of knights: all the servants have to pitch in. So you must have at least seen him around!”

He was so confused. “…Sir Leon?”

She nodded brightly. “Arthur never shuts up about him, especially lately,” she rolled her eyes, but didn’t lose her smile, “and it’s gotten to the point that I’m actually really looking forward to meeting him myself. He sounds much better than the idiots around here.”

Taken aback, Leon raised a brow at her.

Recognizing the chide for the first time so far, she rolled her eyes again. “Alright, they’re not all idiots, but really, it took Sir Bruin four tries to actually earn his knighthood— even Arthur thinks he’s a moron.”

Leon couldn’t actually argue that; Bruin had begun training as a squire the same year that Leon had. And seeing the ragged seams on his sleeve out of the corner of his eye, he realized that it could be taken for more humble clothing than it truly was. Automatically, he opened his mouth to correct her, but asked instead, “You’re close with the prince?”

She scoffed out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Closer than either of us want to be, trust me.”

“So you don’t think much of him.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “Honestly?”

She looked up at him through her lashes; it wasn’t half as appealing a sight as it would be on a more attractive woman, but there still wasn’t any artifice in her manner. As ridiculous a thought as it was, he didn’t think she was trying to manipulate him at all.

She lowered her voice confidingly, leaning forward a bit. “Never—and I mean never—tell him I said this, but he’s the best man I know. A prat and an idiot sometimes, but he’s a good man, and he’ll be a great king. I’m proud to serve him.”

Fighting not to show just how taken aback he was, he appraised her anew. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

She raised her brows at him, unimpressed. “What, you’re going to try and warn me off? Trust me, I got my fill of that the first few weeks I worked for him, so: yes, I know that he works his servants like horses, I know he’s unbelievably demanding when he’s cross, and I know he’s an utter bear in the mornings.”

Leon snorted at that, thinking of all the patrols and such that had set out late because no one dared wake Arthur.

She grinned broadly. “Look, he shows actual emotion! I was starting to think you were Geoffrey’s grandson or something,” she teased.

Picturing the librarian’s perennially somber face, Leon had to hold back a smile. “You… You aren’t what I expected.”

She was almost blindingly genuine, for one; Leon prided himself on his ability to read people, and he saw no deceit in her. He’d seen her lying to Gaius and he’d seen her telling the truth, and she’d been telling the truth throughout their conversation. But she was also somehow younger than he’d thought despite being older in years. In the courtyard, he’d seen a woman exhausted by her trials; now, he saw a cheerful, genuinely likable girl.

He was having a hard time _not_ liking her, actually.

She tilted her head, visibly puzzled for a moment, before scoffing lightly. “Oh, don’t tell me— someone told you about the whole thing with Cedric.” Who? “Look, I definitely went about it the wrong way, but Cedric was possessed by Cornelius Sigan and someone had to stop him— He weaseled his way into being Arthur’s servant for a day— what else could he have done?”

Distantly, Leon was aware that he was gaping at her, but he couldn’t help it. “Cornelius… Sigan.” That was who she’d been fighting in the courtyard? A bogeyman out of children’s stories?

She blinked at him, taken aback. “You didn’t… no one told you about that?” As he shook his head, she pinked all the way to her—large—ears, shifting her weight. “Oh. I thought…” Shaking her head, she offered him a self-deprecating grimace. “That’s why I’m in here. I knew Cedric was a liar and a weasel already, but then I found out he’d been possessed by Sigan and I tried to warn Arthur, but he wouldn’t listen, and then Cedric—Sigan—showed up and I panicked.” Shuffling her feet, she mumbled, “I’m not a very good wrestler.”

Her hand rose to her jaw as she spoke, rubbing at a faintly green mark Leon hadn’t noticed before. He shook his head. “I still— You were thrown in gaol for fighting?”

“Well,” she bobbed her head, rolling her eyes, “I think Arthur probably would have just put me in the stocks for a couple hours to teach me a lesson if he’d broken up the fight like he meant to—I get put in the stocks a lot, mostly for sassing Arthur—or Uther—or dropping something during a banquet—but, well.” Cheeks and ears darkening a few shades further, she faltered to a stop, avoiding Leon’s eyes. “Cedric-Sigan threw me off of him and into Arthur, and I sort of knocked him down. And I might have kicked him in the face.”

A snicker escaped Leon before he could press his fist to his mouth to stifle it; shaking with suppressed laughter, he couldn’t reply as she protested, half-whining, “It was an accident! It’s not funny.”

But a moment later, she grinned, snickering herself. “Although it would have been if I’d been fighting anyone else.” Sobering, she shook her head. “But it was bloody Cornelius Sigan. I half thought Camelot would be a smoldering ruin by daybreak. Not so sure I was wrong; there was so much commotion and screaming last night, I was afraid the keep would come down completely. Did you see what happened?”

Remembering abruptly that this was a powerful sorceress standing a scant foot in front of him, he nodded with utter solemnity. “Not all; I arrived ahead of Lord Cador’s party to bring Gaius a page who’d been wounded on the road—”

“Is he alright?” There was true concern in her face. A sorceress, worried for a boy she’d never met and didn’t even know the name of.

“He will be. Gaius was able to tend to him once things calmed down a bit.” Choosing what to say and hold back carefully, he sketched, “I didn’t see much of the fighting,” after being knocked out, “but I’ve heard no word of any Sigan or Cedric.” He hadn’t even known the sorcerer’s name until just now. “Since…” seeing her use magic to do… something to Sigan’s soul, “about midnight, there have been no attacks.”

The apprehension didn’t leave her face, eyes wide and worried. “And the people harmed in the attacks?”

Heart heavy, he sighed. “I don’t know the numbers, but the dead number in dozens. At least twice as many are wounded, and still being treated.”

Her jaw tightened, frustration and sorrow warring in her expression. Tears gathering in her eyes, she ducked her head, swiping her sleeve over her face.

For a moment, neither spoke. Leon still didn’t know what to think about her. She looked as affected by the casualties as any true knight. As Arthur.

Sniffling, she shook her head and looked up at him again, smiling tightly. “I’m sorry, I really am keeping you from your business, aren’t I?”

Quietly, he huffed. “On the contrary.”

He still wasn’t sure she wasn’t hopelessly misguided, but he’d seen nothing during their conversation to make him think that she posed a threat—certainly not imminent, but even ‘eventual’ seemed unlikely—to Camelot, her people, or her leaders. As such, it was time he followed orders.

Moving to the door, he pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. She didn’t move, still holding onto the bars as she goggled at him. He pulled the door open wide.

When she still didn’t move, he raised a brow at her. “Do you want to stay in there forever?”

That seemed to break her shock, but she still didn’t move toward the door, looking between it and him with a frown. “Arthur’s orders were for me to be in here for a few days— his words.”

“Until he ordered me to come and let you out and send you to Gaius,” he countered. As she blinked at him, he added, “You’ll be sent from there to help with the cleanup, I’d expect.”

A shocked laugh leaving her, she darted through the door and ran toward the exit, skidding to a stop at the corner, nearly falling as she spun to look at him again. “Thank you!”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already gone. Bemused, he closed the cell door and retraced his steps, returning the keys and assuring the guards that she’d been released by order of the prince as he went.

That done, he made his way to his quarters. Once he’d rested, he’d report to Arthur for orders, but now that he didn’t have the adrenaline of a confrontation with a sorceress running through his veins, he was asleep on his feet.

Much, much later, he led a troop of knights and squires out to check that the defenses were intact, and kept his thoughts to himself.

Fully rested and thinking clearly, the course before him was clear, though not ideal.

Merlin had shown no signs of malice, deceit, or even selfishness. In time, perhaps she would show her true colors. In that case, he would deliver her to the pyre himself.

But perhaps he’d already seen her true colors. Perhaps the sorceress’ true nature was neither the cheery child nor the defiant witch, but the exhausted woman, calling Arthur a ‘good man’ after all but agreeing that it pained her to be in Camelot, to be overlooked and put upon. Perhaps her true nature had been fully on display when she told the sorcerer—Sigan—that it was ‘better to serve a good man than rule with an evil one’, when she called Arthur the best man she knew, when she said he’d be a great king, when she said that she was proud to serve him.

Scanning his surroundings as he led the knights through the streets, he nearly faltered to realize that Merlin was almost directly ahead of him. Keeping his head straight, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She never looked up, crouched beside a girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve. The girl looked as though she were fighting tears, but Merlin was chatting quietly to her, glancing up at her with a reassuring smile every few moments, though most of her attention was on the girl’s arm as she wrapped it. Both were filthy, cuts and scrapes over the girl’s face and arms, and over Merlin’s hands, the blood stark against her skin.

Maybe it wasn’t her blood, but the tears in her sleeves and trousers spoke to the possibility that she truly was injured. The locations spoke to the possibility that she’d been wounded in the cleanup efforts.

Turning his eyes forward as she passed out of easy view, Leon focused again on the task at hand.

There would be time to decide what to do about her later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, in the actual show, Leon isn't even one of my top five best characters. In fanfic, though, that's a different story. (He's still only like fourth on the list, but still.) But we do have to explain why he's nowhere to be seen for all of season one. So my running theory is that he was needed elsewhere for a few months. No idea if medieval courts would actually have diplomatic missions not involving someone in the ruling family, but this is a show where 15th-century armor and 21st-century dresses and makeup are worn by characters whose origins range from 5th- to 13th-century, all in a vaguely 5th-century setting. So I'm not super worried about accuracy.  
> Also, I'm kind of meh on most of this episode (not a huge fan of slapstick or second-hand embarrassment), but the confrontation at the end? *chef's kiss* That being said, obviously all the dialogue from that actual scene is straight from that scene.  
> Also-also, I am taking full advantage of the vague canon timeline for maximum angst. This Merlin has seen a ton of crap in a very short amount of time, and that's not changing anytime soon.
> 
> But for anyone worried about Mångata, I promise I... will be working more on it soon. I haven't worked much on it in the last couple weeks, but I am still determined to get the full story up eventually. I just can't promise that it'll be anytime soon. I want to finish part ii before I start posting chapters, so it'll be a while.  
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	10. What Merlin Doesn't Know...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...is going to give her an ulcer.

Merlin groaned as she finally set down the pile of armor. She hadn’t been making any effort to stay quiet, but Arthur just went on snoring. Rolling her eyes, she slipped out again and made her way down to the kitchens.

The only reason she’d been able to finish cleaning and polishing the armor at all was that she’d perfected that spell weeks ago, and still, it had completely wiped her out.

Granted, a big part of that was probably that she’d been working harder while not (technically) working for Arthur than she usually did in a month. The gargoyles had done serious damage to the lower town, a deal of damage to the keep, and the final count of casualties was twenty-two dead, sixty-seven wounded. She’d been run off her feet practically from the minute she’d been released from the dungeons, and the quiet dinner Arthur had so rudely interrupted had been the first time she’d actually had the time to sit and talk honestly with Gaius for days.

Honestly, the prat was lucky she’d woken up early enough to fetch his armor and breakfast herself instead of having another servant run to the kitchens for her. She only did that if she had to, though; after she’d caught a cyanide-laced apple tart a few days after everything with Sophia and Aulfric, she preferred to check his food herself, magically, on the way back to his room.

Barely managing not to collide with a knight as she rounded a corner, she tossed back a quick ‘sorry’ and hurried on; usually, they didn’t bother chasing her if she didn’t linger, they just shouted at her from a distance.

This one didn’t, though, and she glanced back curiously, only catching a glimpse of curly blond hair before he was completely out of view. It reminded her of the servant who’d released her on Arthur’s orders, and not for the first time, she kicked herself—both mentally and accidentally as her foot caught on a step—for not asking his name. At the time, she’d been so glad to be released and so worried what the extent of the damage was—and desperate to see Arthur and make sure he was alright—that it hadn’t occurred to her. Not much of anything had, until after she’d seen that Arthur was at least well enough to snipe at her from the other side of the room.

But then she’d only had room for thoughts of the task at hand for hours; she wasn’t strong enough to help with moving the larger debris, but she’d helped more than one person in the lower town clear smaller pieces or fix their roof, or their door, or their wall. Mostly, she’d been a gofer, the first day. The next, Gaius had shoved his medicine bag into her hands as she left and she’d seen to various patients all day; some had been injured in the initial attacks and hadn’t been able to get real treatment since, others had dropped a stone on their foot or something during the cleanup.

It hadn’t been until the end of the second day that she’d had a passing thought that she ought to find out when Lord Cador’s party would be arriving that she’d remembered the servant.

He’d been nice. Nice-looking, too, but a lot of people in Camelot were; it was easier to avoid pox-scars or malnutrition in the city, unlike Ealdor. But he’d been the sort she wouldn’t mind being put on some cleaning duty with. Serious, but with enough humor to enjoy the conversation, she hoped. Older than her—she guessed by about ten years—but not stuffy like some of the older servants were, and not crude, either. His manners had been better than Arthur’s, really. His accent, too— well, not better than Arthur’s, not more refined, but as refined. That wasn’t so unusual in Camelot, either, especially among the personal servants.

Merlin had even realized herself, talking with her mother after killing Nimueh a few weeks prior, that her own accent was changing. Ealdor’s way of talking had always been closer to Camelot’s than Aestir’s, with how close to the border they were and how often travelers passed through, but she’d still sounded different from, say, Gwen when she first came to Camelot. She still didn’t sound exactly like anyone in Camelot, but she thought she’d make the effort, now she was aware of the change.

Maybe then the more unpleasant servants would stop looking down their noses at her. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have any reason—she was a peasant from the middle of nowhere who’d never even imagined things like candelabras and canopy beds before she came to the city—but she’d learned a lot since first being made Arthur’s servant, and they still sneered at her.

But the man who’d sprung her from the cell hadn’t sneered. He hadn’t seemed to know what to make of her, but she was used to that by now; servant or noble, no one ever seemed to guess what Merlin would do next. Except Lancelot, but that was always belated, it took so long for their letters to reach each other.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Merlin retrieved his food and carried the tray carefully up the many, many stairs to Arthur’s room; why he had to be almost as far as possible from the kitchens, she didn’t know.

As soon as she opened the door to his room—tray balanced precariously on one hand—his snoring reached her, and she rolled her eyes. After setting that down, she laid out his clothes for the day behind the screen, then arranged his armor and such to make it a bit easier for her to outfit him.

And then she used a bit of magic to help her yank all his blankets back at once. “Morning!”

Snores turned to sputters in an instant, and she ducked under the pillow he flung at her. “ _Mer_ lin!”

She just grinned brightly at him; it always annoyed him when she was so chipper first thing. “Yes, clotpole?”

He glared, though the expression was slightly lopsided as he tried to favor his black eye; she had to bite her cheek, hard, to keep from laughing. “That’s still not a word.”

No, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “If you say so, Arthur.” Sauntering over to his side, she poked lightly at his bandages. “Since you know so much.”

Still glaring, he swatted her hand away. “I’m beginning to regret taking you back on.”

To that, she just gave him a flat look. “Really? So you’d rather have to go up to Gaius to have your bandages changed and be late to whatever it is you needed the armor for, or maybe you’d rather not go to Gaius until afterward and bleed through your chainmail?”

He just shoved a pillow in her face.

Tossing it back at him, she retrieved the bandages she’d stashed inside his armor. “Like it or not, you need those changed.”

Despite heaving an entirely overdramatic sigh, he sat up and moved to the edge of the bed so she could wrap the fresh bandages around his chest. He’d been wounded too many times—and she’d been Gaius’ assistant for too long—for his lack of a shirt to matter in the slightest to either of them, even if objectively—and begrudgingly—she did have to admit that the sight wasn’t a repulsive one. Still glowering, he ordered imperiously, “Tell me the state of the lower town.”

“What, not seen it yourself?” He glared; she snickered, and focused on his wound as she spoke. “It’s not good. Better now than it was right after, but still, it’s going to take a few weeks, at least, before the repairs are finished.”

“The people?”

“Twenty-two dead.” She had to swallow hard before she could go on, guilt knotting in her stomach. “Sixty-seven wounded, mostly from being thrown into walls or swiped at, but there were a few trampled in the panic. Another six have been injured since the attacks, just little things like dropping a hammer on their foot for the most part. All of them have been tended to, and the ones who still need tending are being seen to.”

He nodded, mouth in a tight line. It bothered him as much as Merlin when people were hurt during these sorts of things, she knew. “Gaius must be busy.”

She bobbed her head, tying off the bandage. “Busier than usual, but mostly everyone just needs a checkup once or twice a week. There aren’t many that need daily checks, and few enough that need constant care that he said I shouldn’t worry about splitting my duties for now. Especially since you aren’t in any sort of condition for hunting or patrols or training, so that’s a lot of my schedule free.”

He didn’t respond right away to that; she chattered about the various work being done in the city as she dressed him—turning her back as he put on his trousers—and topped his day-clothes with his aketon. While he ate, she made his bed and tidied up the room, still chattering brightly.

He retorted now and then, sniping at her or asking for clarification.

Eventually, her tidying brought her back to the table, collecting the dishes he’d cleaned off. “…en he said I was just getting in the way—”

“Like usual.”

“—so I left him to it and went back to the keep, but George said I’d done enough—”

“Because you’re a nuisance.”

“—and I was getting underfoot, and I was getting tired anyway—”

“Took long enough.”

“—so I went back up to the tower and Gaius made dinner and then you came in and you know the rest.”

He snorted, swallowing the last bit of bacon. “Does that mean you’re finally going to stop talking?”

Glaring, she pulled the plate in front of him onto the tray. “You asked, clotpole.”

“And you answered,” he said brightly, “and then kept talking for a week.”

“Prat.”

“Brat.”

She stuck her tongue out at him; he rolled his eyes and tossed back the last of his water.

“Don’t be such a child, _Mer_ lin.”

“I’m not _that_ young, prat.”

He snorted, standing. “Yes, you are.”

She mock-gasped, pretending to realize, “Oh! It’s because you’re an old man!”

Scoffing, he threw the chalice in his hand at her; she ducked with a squeak, only just fast enough to dodge it. As it clattered behind her, she glared darkly at him. “That was overboard, Arthur. You could’ve given me a concussion.”

Moving to his armor, he dismissed her with a flick of his fingers. “You always dodge.”

Pursing her lips, she grabbed his armor before he could, slipping easily into the sequence of fastenings and buckles. “Yeah, and what if you surprise me someday and I don’t dodge and then you hit me so hard I get an aneurysm and die? Be sorry then, wouldn’t you.”

“An aneurysm,” he repeated dryly.

Nodding blithely, she moved behind him to fasten his chestplate. “Gaius has plenty of books that talk about those. People are doing normal things, talking, laughing, eating— and then all of a sudden, they’re dead and gone and there’s no saving them.”

“Because that’s so likely.”

Irked at his nonchalance, she grumbled, “Could be.”

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“ _Ar_ thur.”

“Don’t be such a child.”

Glaring at the back of his head, she tightened the buckle around his waist a bit more tightly than usual; he yelped loudly as it pinched his injured side; she snickered. “Don’t be such a child, clotpole.”

Growling under his breath, he grabbed a bowl from the table and chucked it at her; she ducked it with a yelp of her own, and only kept her balance by grabbing hold of his belt. He snickered; she glared.

Abruptly, the door opened; both of them spinning to face it, Arthur’s hand clipped her arm and she felt herself tip a bit too far. Feet slipping out from under her, she restrained her magic instinctively; her back hit the ground hard enough to knock her breath from her; her head hit the ground hard enough that she saw stars.

Still, even as distant as his voice was, she heard the grin in Arthur’s voice. “Leon!”

Eyes scrunched tight, she raised a hand to her head, half-afraid she’d feel blood. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, clotpole, thanks for asking.”

She wasn’t bleeding, at least, but she could already tell she’d have a goose-egg the size of Sigan’s crystal. “ _Mer_ lin, what are you doing on the floor? Get up and get Sir Leon some refreshment!”

A softer voice broke in, the same sort of cultured, refined accent as Arthur’s, but not so sharp as his or Uther’s. “That won’t be necessary, sire; I don’t require anything.”

“As you wish, then. Tell me of Alba.”

Abruptly, she remembered where she knew that name. Eyes snapping open, she lurched upright, only to nearly fall over again as the room spun; one arm flailing as she tried to keep her balance, she held desperately to the back of the chair with the other, eyes shut.

“Easy, there.” The voice—Leon’s—was much closer now, but she still couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes, the floor seeming to roil under her feet.

“Honestly, _Mer_ lin, can’t you even stand up without looking a fool?”

Scoffing, she muttered under her breath, “Well, you can’t breathe without looking a fool, so…”

Slowly, the floor stopped moving, and she blinked her eyes carefully open. The sunlight was painful, but she’d had enough concussions to know that this one was only mild. The chair moved under her hand, and she looked reflexively over at it, only to realize that she was clinging to someone’s armored hand. Head snapping up to meet familiar eyes, the world spun again, and she had to focus on not retching; she didn’t have any breakfast in her to lose, but bile still wasn’t pleasant to clean up.

But the man—the same servant who’d let her out of the dungeons, except—just braced her with his other hand under her elbow. “Careful.”

Wide-eyed, she blinked her vision clear and then just stared. He was wearing a knight’s armor, and Arthur had called him— and she’d asked _him_ if he knew Leon, he must have thought— and she hadn’t even stopped to think—

Face heating, she pulled her hands away and ducked her head, careful not to move so quickly that she’d get nauseous again. “Thank you, sir.”

Keeping her eyes on the floor, she moved to Arthur and finished fastening his armor as unobtrusively as she could.

Leon’s hand—raised to knock on Arthur’s door—fell instead to the doorknob at the sound of a pained yelp. His other hand on the hilt of his sword, he pushed the door open, quickly enough to surprise the two inside.

Both spun to face him; unfortunately, Merlin was standing close enough to Arthur that he knocked her down, even as he grinned to see his visitor. “Leon!”

Slurring slightly, Merlin grumbled, “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, clotpole, thanks for asking.”

Leon gladly clasped Arthur’s forearm in return, but frowned to see Merlin probing gingerly at her head, eyes tightly closed. Arthur followed Leon’s eyes and scowled, as Leon might have expected; the concern in his expression, on the other hand, surprised him. “ _Mer_ lin, what are you doing on the floor? Get up and get Sir Leon some refreshment!”

Leon shook his head, wary of imposing on a sorceress. “That won’t be necessary, sire; I don’t require anything.”

Eyes still on Merlin, Arthur grimaced, and Leon wasn’t sure his words were entirely for him. “As you wish, then.” Looking back to him, Arthur smiled, a bit forced, but genuinely. “Tell me of Alba.”

A sharp inhale was all the warning Leon had before Merlin was flailing upright, nearly losing her balance; he reached out to steady her reflexively, only catching hold of one of her hands. Still, he held that steady, eying her with more concern than he’d expected to feel as she swayed, almost grey. “Easy, there.”

Catching Arthur’s eye, he was somewhat gratified to see that the prince looked even more concerned; he was also still a bit concerned Arthur was enchanted, but his next words banished that. “Honestly, _Mer_ lin, can’t you even stand up without looking a fool?”

A bit more color in her cheeks, she muttered sourly, “Well, you can’t breathe without looking a fool, so…”

Leon had to hold back a bemused laugh. He expected to see irritation or anger in Arthur’s face—if he’d heard her at all—but instead, in the half-second before he cleared his expression, Arthur actually looked relieved, and more fond than Leon could remember him looking in years.

Somehow, Merlin seemed even smaller without bars separating them— or maybe it was the lack of the vivacity she’d shown then. In the courtyard, she’d been a vulnerable girl, a proud sorceress, an exhausted woman— all of them larger than life. In the dungeon, she’d been bright and sunny, a force of nature— a hurricane— a dragon content to bounce and chatter like a squirrel.

Now, he only saw a young woman no more invulnerable than he was, and no less human.

She opened her eyes slowly, but her head snapped up so quickly that he wasn’t surprised in the slightest when she went green and swayed again. As unthinkingly as he’d caught her in the first, he caught hold of her elbow now, holding her upright. He didn’t think she was even aware of how she gripped his forearm in response.

“Careful.” Hearing himself, he barely held back a groan; he was turning into his father.

Despite looking straight at him, it was several moments before he thought she actually saw him, and she clearly recognized him straightaway. Pinking all the way to her ears—put on display by the way she had her hair pulled back—she snatched her hands back and ducked her head, shoulders high and voice small and strained. “Thank you, sir.”

She moved to Arthur too quickly to be doing anything but fleeing; the prince rolled his eyes, but lifted his arm slightly to give her better access to the buckles still to be fastened. “Alba, Leon, you were saying?”

Inclining his head, Leon obeyed, describing King Rience and his court, then the defenses he’d noted, then the general attitudes he’d noted among the courtiers, servants, and various others he’d come across.

Merlin retreated to Arthur’s desk once he was fully armored, but barely even pretended not to be listening; at Arthur’s prompting, Leon continued.

After a few minutes further, Arthur tossed out a list of chores for Merlin and the two knights walked toward the great hall, still discussing Leon’s trip.

They arrived a bit early, only a handful of courtiers milling about. After getting through the requisite pleasantries, he and Arthur retreated to their positions at the dais, purportedly to discuss important matters of state.

Really, they just quietly—very quietly—debated the merits of all-weather training.

That is, until a brunette servant caught Leon’s eye. “That reminds me…”

Arthur raised a brow.

Cautiously, Leon prompted, “I’d heard rumors about you being granted a mistress by the king.”

Arthur blanched, as visibly disgusted by the idea as Leon had ever seen him. “Don’t be revolting. She’s my maidservant, that’s all.”

Relief replaced a bit of his unease, but he still pressed carefully on. “But you must be aware that a man having a female servant— people talk.”

A faint grimace crossed Arthur’s face before he cleared his expression again. “I am. At first, I thought to just push her into quitting. Making her spar with me, sending her to muck out the stables every few days, putting her in the stocks whenever she talked back—”

Despite himself, Leon couldn’t help a quiet chide. “Arthur.”

Accepting the rebuke, Arthur inclined his head slightly. “I know. But I thought if I fired her, people would say that I’d used her and was throwing her over. If she left of her own accord, people would say that she’d quit to escape me, or because I wouldn’t be seduced, but it wouldn’t be as bad.”

Leon had to admit he had a point. “It still wouldn’t have stopped the rumors.”

Arthur snorted quietly, giving Leon a look that managed to be wry while still subtle enough not to be noticeable from more than a few feet away. “Nothing would have, you know that as well as I do. But it didn’t work anyway. Turns out, Merlin’s even more stubborn than I am.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

Arthur tactfully ignored the gentle sarcasm. “Not only did she refuse to quit, she drank poison for me. Knowingly.”

Leon stared at him, only kept from gaping by years of habit.

Arthur shook his head fractionally. “It’s a long story. But even before that, she wouldn’t stay behind when I went on patrols or hunts, no matter how much I overworked her. She’d just add complaining about how tired she was to complaining about the weather, or how she still had bits of tomato in her hair from being in the stocks, or how she had a ‘funny feeling’ that we’d be attacked by bandits.” He rolled his eyes, but a smile was playing at the corner of his mouth. “I actually have sacked her a few times now. She just shows up the next day like nothing happened, or follows me around like an underfoot kitten until I give in and let her come back.”

Leon couldn’t help an incredulous scoff. “You can’t be serious.”

“Unfortunately.” The smile grew for a moment before he schooled his expression. “Although, don’t tell her, but I’ve been giving her work for at least two servants. I’ve no idea how she gets it all done, but I’ve learned not to ask if I don’t want her to talk my ear off.”

The entrance of a small mob of knights heralded the man who’d be receiving his knighthood, and Leon removed himself with a bow, taking his place to the side. As Arthur’s second-in-command, he stood closest to the front.

It left him easily able to see Arthur’s face as he conducted the ceremony, and just as able to see Merlin slip into the room and take a position against the back wall. She watched Arthur with a tiny, proud smile, until she noticed Leon and ducked her head with a blush.

He didn’t understand. He’d already been confused, but now…

The conclusion that she wasn’t a threat to Camelot had taken long enough to wrap his head around. The information that she’d not only allowed herself to be—as Sigan had put it—be treated like a slave, but returned to it willingly—and repeatedly—was going to take much longer to process.

Granted, it seemed clear from Arthur’s words that she was using magic to do her work, but that was even more bewildering. She was a powerful sorceress—as powerful or more than the legendary Cornelius Sigan—and she was living in a kingdom that would burn her to a crisp if anyone discovered the truth…

…and she was risking capital punishment for the sake of dented armor and dirty socks.

She made less and less sense the more he learned.

Merlin ducked her head as she set Arthur’s weapons down on the table. Leon was there.

She didn’t know what to make of him. He was almost always watching her, it seemed, but she couldn’t tell if he was suspicious or just condescending. Gwen had already let her know that he’d been asking around about her, if subtly.

Gaius worried that he suspected her of using magic.

Gwen was sure that he was just curious.

Morgana had laughed off Merlin’s wariness, assuring her that Leon hadn’t looked twice at anyone but Morgana herself in years, and adding that he wasn’t the brightest, evidenced by his infatuation with a woman far above his station.

Merlin wasn’t as sure as any of them of his motives.

If he thought she was a sorceress, he’d have said something. As a knight, the only reason he’d have to be curious about a servant was if he wanted a dalliance, but Merlin was well aware that she didn’t have the looks to attract that sort of attention. And he wasn’t looking at her _that_ way, anyway. And she didn’t think he was as dull-witted as Morgana thought, either.

The most likely reason she could think of was the same reason she’d have been suspicious in his shoes: he thought she was trying to manipulate Arthur or kill him or something. She couldn’t fault him for that; if more people were looking out for Arthur, her job would be that much easier.

The problem was, she didn’t know what tack to take. Most of the knights were even more condescending than the servants. If she were anyone else’s servant, she’d have probably been walloped black-and-blue a half-dozen times already, or worse. Gwen had had to explain that to her, in the beginning. That as Arthur’s servant—or Morgana’s—they had protection that most of the other servants didn’t.

So was Leon the sort to get angry if she stepped out of line, or was he more like Arthur?

Granted, Arthur got angry when she went too far, but his threshold for how far was too far was very different than most nobles’.

While she’d been fiddling with Arthur’s weapons, spreading them out so that none of the blades crossed—she’d worked too hard to sharpen them to mess them up now—he’d laid out his first opponent. Snickering, she held out a fresh sword as he stalked over to the table, catching the now-nicked blade that he tossed at her.

Grabbing a whetstone, she sat beside the table and set to work. The more she did now, the more likely it was that she’d have time to actually sleep that night; Arthur wasn’t fully healed yet, but he was well enough for light sparring. Obviously.

Boots crunched over the grass; she didn’t look toward them, focused on a stubborn nick.

Arthur shouted out; she looked up reflexively, relieved to see that he was yelling at a few squires, not at her. Armored legs beside her caught her eye, and she blanched to realize who was standing there.

Fumbling to her feet, she offered the knight a shallow bow. “Sir Leon.”

“Careful,” he gestured to the sword she’d let tumble onto the grass, “that looks sharp enough to cut straight through your boots.”

She looked up at him sharply, thrown by the idle concern in his voice. But there was no hint of a trick in his face, and she straightened up all the way, glancing at the sword with a cautious smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time, sir. I’m a bit clumsy.”

He chuckled lightly; remembering how she’d made him laugh in the dungeons, she blanched, then pinked again.

Ducking her head, she settled on the path of least obsequiousness. Or lesser, anyway. “I’m sorry for being overly familiar before, sir.”

He didn’t speak for a moment.

Nerves bubbling in her stomach, she rambled, “I didn’t recognize you, but I should have, except I’ve never seen you before, so I couldn’t have, and you weren’t dressed like a nobleman anyway, but you didn’t act like a servant, but I should’ve guessed that they wouldn’t have sent a servant to ride ahead alone, but they wouldn’t have sent a knight to escort a page, either—“

“If the page in question hadn’t been Lord Wolverton’s only son, you’d be right.” Humor laced his words, and she glanced up warily; a bemused smile met her.

Straightening, she tilted her head curiously. “Why were you dressed like you were then?”

At that, he hesitated, a flicker of something she was hesitant to call fear crossing his face; lowering his voice, he confided, “I spilled one of Gaius’ potions on myself before Arthur sent me to let you out.”

She laughed, at first startled, then with genuine humor. “Fair enough. Although— I’ve made plenty of those and if I were you, I wouldn’t put them directly on your skin again.”

The worried revulsion in his eyes only made her laugh harder, but after a few moments, he chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Leon!”

They both looked over at Arthur, and Leon moved off with a tiny nod to Merlin; she bowed shallowly, and returned to her work.

She still wasn’t sure what to think of him.

But she wasn’t so worried now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no Kíli Baggins story yet, sorry. I realized that I hadn't even thought about the Swan Lake story in a while, so I decided to only update the KB one after I finish a chapter of 1) Mångata, 2) KB, 3) Swan Lake. So good news, it shouldn't be too-too long, because I think I might be past my block with Swan Lake, and hopefully I'll finish this chapter soon.   
> But bad news, (sort of), I'm back at work full time now, so I have a lot less time to write. But I also have less time to procrastinate, so it might work out for the best.  
> Anyway, back to this story, question for you: Merlin/Leon or Merlin/Gwaine? I originally started writing this with M/L in mind, but Meraine has always been (and probably will always be) my fem!Merlin OTP. So I don't know. Either way, there wouldn't be any romance until Gwaine shows up (and immediately starts flirting with her, because we all know he's a massive flirt) and then stuff would get moving. But it would affect how I write a couple of things in particular before then, so, it's up to you guys. Let me know which you prefer!  
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	11. Same Coin, Different Sides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of an overdone trope, but here's my take.  
> (Starts at the beginning of Half-Blood Prince)

Harry looked around Diagon Alley with a frown. The cheer and casual bustle that had always pervaded it was gone, replaced with boarded up windows, wanted posters, and shabby stalls selling questionable goods to anxious, harried customers.

He wasn’t going to compare it to Camelot. He wasn’t.

The memories— no, they were dreams, that was all. Just vivid dreams of a life he’d never known.

But they wouldn’t leave his mind as he half-listened to the group decide who would go where.

He didn’t know why the dreams had begun, only that they had, a few days into the summer. He’d picked up a quill to write Sirius, but after he remembered, he hadn’t been in the mood to tell anyone else. He’d hoped it was a fluke.

Instead, the dreams had continued, every night since then. But the real trouble was, he was starting to remember things that hadn’t been in the dreams. As they made their way through the meager crowds, he remembered Ealdor, how the people there had had the same air of waiting for the sword over their head to drop. He remembered Camelot, after Morgana’s first coup. Everyone who’d survived it had come out scarred, whether that was physical or not. It had taken months for his people to relax again, and then the dorocha had ruined it.

Catching himself, he shook the thoughts away. He was Harry Potter, son of James and Lily, student of Hogwarts and Boy Who Lived. Not Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther and Ygraine, ruler of Camelot and Once and Future King.

But even as he dismissed the thoughts, one persisted. If he was dreaming of the life of a king who’d once lived, did that make him the ‘future’ half of the equation?

Hearing Malfoy’s voice inside Madame Malkin’s nearly sent Harry out again, but that would only make Ron and Hermione worry. A moment later, though, he realized that Malfoy hadn’t sounded as arrogant as usual. He’d… He’d almost sounded gentle toward his mother.

That was just wrong.

He glanced at Ron and Hermione to see if they’d noticed, but they only looked at him oddly.

A tiny intake of breath was followed an apology from Madame Malkin, for whatever reason, and then Malfoy strode out from behind a rack and to a mirror across from where Harry stood, presumably to examine the pin-covered green robes he wore.

Reflexively, Harry drew his wand, and saw Ron do the same at the edge of his vision. Whether it was the motion or some other impetus, Malfoy glanced at them sidelong, and for a long moment only studied them. Harry couldn’t help but do the same, thrown by the oddities in his behavior. Malfoy should have drawn his wand as well, or made some scathing remark, as soon as he noticed them. Instead, he was so still he might have seemed frozen if his bearing weren’t so relaxed, and his expression, while sharp, was almost contemplative. He looked thinner, as well, which only made his face pointier, and he’d grown his hair out a bit.

His eyes met Harry’s, and Harry’s stomach flipped, a bizarre feeling filling him, that they’d done this before and that he’d seen that look before, on someone else’s face.

Malfoy looked back to the mirror after a moment, just as Madame Malkin emerged. “Excuse me, I don’t want wands drawn in my shop!”

From just behind them, Hermione whispered, “No, don’t, honestly, it’s not worth it…”

Malfoy half-snorted. “As if you’d dare do magic out of school, Granger.”

Harry’s frown deepened. If Malfoy taking his attention off of them wasn’t strange enough, he had to have seen Hermione’s black eye, so why hadn’t he said anything about it?

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out as well, as cold as ever. “Put those away. If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”

She met Harry’s eyes as she spoke, and for a moment, all he could see was Nimue, standing over him in the cave. But he was Harry, and she was paler than usual, and he’d grown. He was as tall as her now. He took a step forward, deliberately, though he did lower his wand. “Really? You and whose army? Or would it be You-know-who’s?”

Madame Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. “Really, you shouldn’t accuse— dangerous thing to say— wands away, please!”

Harry didn’t look away from Narcissa’s face, and he saw her calculate the distance between them, the impact of his words, his stance, all the things he’d already added up about her. She couldn’t afford to make a scene, not against the Boy-who-lived, and he wasn’t so close to her that he couldn’t raise his wand again. Malfoy had gone very still.

She smiled unpleasantly. “I see that being Dumbledore’s favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.”

He nearly mocked her—the words fairly leapt to his tongue—but instead he smiled back, the false, diplomat’s smile he’d learned from Uther and Agravaine. “Do you really think I’ve survived so long because of Dumbledore’s protection? He wasn’t there in Little Hangleton, that night I dueled your _lord_ ,” and he couldn’t resist turning the title into a mockery of its own, “and survived.”

She flinched. Minutely, but she did.

He’d have taken another step forward if it wouldn’t have brought him too close to raise his wand. Instead, he held her eyes and lowered his voice so that only she would hear. “Attack me or my friends and you won’t live to regret it.”

Her expression didn’t change, but he saw the lines in her neck strengthen a fraction, just enough for him to know that she understood just how real the threat was.

Harry had never killed intentionally.

But Arthur had, and Harry remembered it. If it was a choice between that and his friends’ lives, he’d choose them every time.

Madame Malkin edged toward Malfoy and began adjusting the pins again, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Maybe that’s what she wanted to believe.

Harry and Narcissa’s stand-off didn’t end until Madame Malkin quietly announced her adjustments were done and Malfoy pulled the robes off, handing them to her.

Narcissa tilted her chin up a fraction. “With my apologies, Madame Malkin, now that I know the sort of… clientele,” she glanced pointedly at Hermione, “you entertain, I believe your services won’t be necessary. We’ll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting’s.”

Harry’s grip on his wand had tightened at the insult to Hermione, but he stepped aside to let the Malfoys pass, glaring at both, even as he still couldn’t understand why Malfoy was being so reserved.

Madame Malkin huffed once they were gone. “Well, really!”

She was distracted all through their fittings, even trying to sell Hermione wizard’s robes at one point, and Harry got the distinct impression she hoped to never see them again when they left.

The rest of the day passed without further incident, from the Malfoys or otherwise.

Harry wasn’t surprised when Ron and Hermione dragged him to the same broomshed Dumbledore had used when he wanted a word with them, though.

“Alright, what is going on?” Hermione looked as though she were about to explode with questions. “You’ve been acting strangely all summer, but that— today—”

Ron cut in, “You’ve been saying things, doing things— it’s like you’re ten years older, all of a sudden.”

Hermione nodded in fervent agreement.

Harry sighed. He’d been hoping to avoid this, but he’d known it was inevitable. “Ron, do you remember a few days ago, you woke me up, saying I’d been having a nightmare, saying ‘Merlin’ a lot?”

Ron snorted. “Hard to forget, mate. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you cuss so much like a wizard.”

That brought a smile to Harry’s face; Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Except that you haven’t been, otherwise. And whenever Ron or someone says ‘Merlin’, you flinch.”

The smile fell away. How to explain? Best to start at the beginning. “A few days after term ended, I had a weird dream.”

Both of them looked alarmed. “‘Weird’ like last term?”

Ron added, “Or ‘weird’ like when you had that dream about playing Quidditch on a pudding broom, and no one could score because the goals were lollipops and the snitch was a cockroach cluster and you didn’t want to catch it?”

Hermione gave both of them very strange looks, but Harry shook his head. “‘Weird’ like I was in England before it was ‘England’, just after the Romans left, and I was a knight, and I was riding out against a dragon.”

Hermione blinked. “You…”

“And then the next night, I dreamt of having a sister who was a witch and wanted me dead, and I wanted so badly to believe that she wasn’t too far gone that I nearly let her kill me. And the night after that, I was announcing my father’s death, and listening to all of Camelot chant ‘long live the king’.”

“Camelot— Harry, that’s a fairy t—”

Ron spoke over her, wide-eyed. “You’re dreaming of the Once and Future King?”

Hermione squinted at him; Harry nodded. “And the dreams haven’t stopped. The one you woke me from, the idiot was missing and then I found him in a bog, of all places, and then he was acting strange for days, and that old—” He froze for an instant, then cracked up. “That idiot, he was Dragoon the whole time—Dragoon, not even a good fake name—that’s why I knew his eyes!”

Laughing, he slumped against the door behind him, and saw Hermione’s frown deepen. “Harry…”

She was about to say something about him needing to go to Mungo’s, he just knew it; he held up a hand, straightening up to his full height. “No. I know how this sounds, that’s why I didn’t say anything before. But it isn’t just dreams anymore. I haven’t had any dreams about going into the Lower Town, but I remember walking around the market while Uther was still alive. I haven’t dreamt of my childhood, but I remember the pressure, how everyone expected me to be the perfect prince, perfect heir, perfect everything, and how the only way I knew to act was like I saw my father acting toward his lords and servants. I have dreamt of meeting Merlin, although I didn’t remember how bloody skinny the idiot was until that dream. Or how young—he couldn’t have been older than we are now.”

Ron started, slightly. “But— Merlin was older than King Arthur!”

Harry snorted. “Merlin was a twig of a teenager when we met, all legs and elbows—a lot like you right now, actually—which means I was probably around four years older than him. Maybe more, but I never did learn when his birthday was.”

Hermione still looked concerned, and Harry addressed her softly. “‘Mione, am I acting like a completely different person, or like an older version of myself?” She didn’t answer, and he continued, “Arthur was thirty-one when he died. I remember all those years, or most of them anyway, and I remember war, and ruling a kingdom, and how it felt to be an adult. I’m still me. I just… got a bit of a head start on growing up.”

Ron was turning a bit green. “You… You remember dying?”

Oops. Harry hadn’t meant to let that slip. “Well, not dying, really. It was more like I just fell asleep and didn’t wake up again.” Aside from the agonizing pain every time he moved, or Merlin moved him, or he breathed a bit too deeply. And then there had been just feeling the shard of metal in his chest, the absolute wrongness of it, of feeling invaded by something he couldn’t see, couldn’t stop, couldn’t fight. But he didn’t need to mention that. “And all the last several days are hazy anyway.”

Ron nodded, starting to recover a bit. “Right, after Camlann.”

Harry and Hermione—who’d been deep in thought—looked at him quizzically. “How do you know that name?”

Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t remember ever reading about a ‘Camlann’ in story books.”

Ron looked at her oddly. “Why would it be in story books? It’s history. Mum taught us all about it when we were little. Everyone knows about Merlin and Arthur and how Merlin taught him how to rule.”

Harry’s brows shot up despite himself. “Taught— What the bloody— That idiot didn’t know how to make a bed when he came to Camelot, let alone rule— Good speechwriter, yeah, but too bloody soft on everyone who…” He leaned his head against the wall behind him, only just realizing… “Everyone but Mordred. He risked his life for him as a child, but every time after that… Merlin knew he was fated to kill me, didn’t he?”

Ron looked vaguely apologetic when Harry met his eyes, and nodded. “What I was taught is that Merlin could see the future, but it wasn’t always accurate. And sometimes he made it happen by trying to stop it. That’s why he went to Camelot, and sought you out.”

Harry had been nodding vaguely, able to see those times in retrospect, when Merlin had been so insistent that Arthur do something, or not do something, and while he’d never been able to explain, he’d been proven right eventually. And then Ron’s last sentence registered, and Harry scoffed. “I’m starting to think all your histories of Camelot need to be taken with a grain of salt. Merlin didn’t seek me out. He sassed me before he even knew who I was, and then again when he did, and then he saved my life—probably with magic, in hindsight—and got made my manservant.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Harry— that’s slavery!”

At that, Harry had to laugh. “That clotpole could have left anytime he wanted— or just stayed gone after I sacked him, and I did that a few times. Besides, if you had any idea how insolent he was, you wouldn’t think that, believe me.”

Hermione scowled. “But—”

He held up a hand; surprisingly, she stopped. “This was a different time, Hermione. Uther used to have servants who weren’t respectful enough flogged. Morgana, while she was on the throne, killed them and burned their crops. Merlin was more insolent, disrespectful, and flat-out rude to me than every servant who displeased my family combined, and the worst I ever did was have him put in the stocks for an afternoon. Not even that after the first year or so. He may have worked for me, but he was my friend. My brother.” He sighed, slumping further. “I wish he was here. He had these little moments of insight, wisdom even, that helped me through so much.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Drawing himself up, Harry pulled himself together, using his years of ruling to fortify him, and raised a brow at the other two. “If that’s all for now, can we get out of here? Pretty sure the only ones who like dust and dark are the spiders.”

He only waited a cursory beat before leaving, but they followed quickly.

Harry stared up at the stars. Were they the same as he’d seen in Camelot? He knew that the stars couldn’t have changed too much in a millennium and a half, but he also knew from Astronomy that they did shift, just slightly, and that Muggles’ pollution made it hard to see some.

He thought he had a fairly good view from the top of the Burrow, though.

He’d have an even better view starting the next day.

He wasn’t ready to go back to Hogwarts. It was childish and shortsighted, but he couldn’t help it. The dreams were beginning to ease off, sometimes memories of Camelot, sometimes simple dreams, but still, every now and then one brought up something he hadn’t thought of and he needed a few hours to come to terms with it.

And then there was that. He was Harry Potter, but he had Arthur Pendragon’s memories, and there were so many more of them that he was beginning to feel like he was drowning. He was Harry Potter, but for the last few days—weeks, even—he’d been falling back on Arthur’s experience more and more. He was Harry Potter, but he was starting to be afraid he wouldn’t be for long.

“Have the Wrackspurts gotten to you, too?”

He startled at Ginny’s voice, but mustered a half-smile as she stepped onto the roof next to him, laying her broomstick beside his. “That’s right, you and Luna are friends. How is she?”

“Good,” Ginny sat next to him, then met his eyes, expression solemn, “but she’s going to see you’ve changed straight off.”

His smile fell away. He looked out at the horizon. “Is it that obvious, then?”

“Not really. Not to people who don’t know you. And—”

She didn’t continue; after a moment, he guessed, “And most people will think it’s because of Sirius.”

He sensed her flinch, but he didn’t look toward her. In the corner of his eye, she pulled her knees up and rested her arms on them. “I’d probably think the same, but…”

“But…”

“…I may have been on my way to grab a broom when a certain conversation was going on.”

At that, he did look at her. “You eavesdropped on us?”

She shrugged. “You weren’t very quiet. Besides, I’d been worried about you.”

There was a note in her voice that was almost how Gwen would have sounded, and Harry looked away again. He wasn’t ready to deal with that. “And you didn’t think I should be sent to St. Mungo’s?”

“Harry.” After a moment, he realized she wasn’t going to continue until he looked at her; her expression was almost fierce, and almost amused, and she almost seemed to glow in the moonlight. “What you described? Every child in Wizarding Britain grows up with those stories, and with the promise that King Arthur will return someday. Every family sees it differently, some think he’ll literally rise from the dead and go right back to ruling, some think it’ll just be someone very similar to King Arthur. We’ve always leaned toward the latter, but what you’re describing is somewhere in between. I don’t think you literally are King Arthur, but I think you’ve got enough of him to help you along.”

A portion of the weight on his shoulders lifted off at her words. Not all of it, but it was a relief anyway. From the way Ron had been going on, he’d half thought that he’d be even more revered by everyone for being Arthur than for being the Boy-who-lived. But Ginny had put half that hero worship behind her sometime in the last few years, and it seemed the rest hadn’t been an issue. She wasn’t looking at him any differently than usual.

More gently, she smiled. “Think the school’ll get over you being the High King of Albion as easily as they did you being Slytherin’s Heir?”

He had to laugh at that, if only faintly. “Here’s hoping.”

Nodding, she looked up at the stars, and he followed suit. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, at Hogwarts. He might need some time to himself, but he had his invisibility cloak. Hermione would fill the silence if he wanted. Ron would help distract him, Quidditch or treats or such. Neville would cover for him if he asked. And Ginny understood, he thought. Not all of it, but needing the quiet.

They sat in silence for close to an hour, he thought, before he couldn’t ignore the hour any longer. Standing, he held a hand out to Ginny. “Early start tomorrow.”

Snorting, she took his hand but didn’t put the slightest weight on it. “Early and chaotic.”

He grinned. “Remind me to tell you about Yule preparations the first year I was king.”

She grinned back. “I’ll hold you to that. Race you down!”

She was on her broom and off before he could blink. Laughing, he followed.

Harry held his breath as the Slytherin compartment settled down again. His entrance hadn’t been especially dignified, but he was in the luggage rack, with a perfect view of the five students below.

Zabini and Goyle were still seething, clearly, but they’d stopped snarling, at least. Crabbe was engrossed in his comic—or possibly trying to figure out what those funny little squiggles were—and Parkinson seemed more than a bit put out that Malfoy wasn’t going along with her idea that he should lie with his head in her lap.

Malfoy was still being oddly reserved, barely even glancing at Parkinson as he shook her off. “So, Zabini, what did Slughorn want?”

Zabini kept glowering at Goyle as he answered. “Just trying to make up to well-connected people. Not that he could find many.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched, as though he were trying not to smile. That wasn’t right; he should have been insulted that he hadn’t been invited, as well. “Who did he scrape up?”

“McLaggen from Gryffindor—”

“Oh yeah, his uncle’s big in the ministry.”

“—someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw—”

Parkinson grimaced. “Not him, he’s a prat!”

“—and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl.”

Malfoy’s brows twitched. “Longbottom?”

Zabini only shrugged. Parkinson screwed up her face, looking even more like a pug than usual. “What’s he got to interest Slughorn?”

None of them could answer that; Harry had to bit his lip hard to keep from defending Neville. Parkinson and Zabini fell into conversation about Slughorn and how obviously senile he was, while Malfoy looked pensively out the window. Harry found it hard to look away from Malfoy; there was something very familiar about his expression, how lost in his thoughts he was, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He was so preoccupied with the puzzle, in fact, that he didn’t notice the others moving until Goyle pulled down his trunk and hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He was able to keep from reacting, barely, but Malfoy looked sharply at where he was anyway. He looked away again in another instant to pull on his robes and clasp a thick traveling cloak around his shoulders. Harry still drew his wand, though, just in case.

As they prepared to leave—Harry hoped Ron and Hermione had grabbed his things for him—Malfoy hung back. When the train finally stopped and Parkinson paused in the doorway, reaching toward Malfoy as though she hoped he’d hold her hand, he shook his head. “You go on, I just want to check something.”

She didn’t look satisfied, but left. Malfoy let down the blinds over the door, then did the same on the window.

Harry was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. He’d seen people cast spells silently before; maybe he could cast a _protego_? It couldn’t be that difficult.

_“Petrificus Totalus!”_

His stomach plummeted, but he couldn’t look away from Malfoy, who smirked up at him.

“Honestly, do you think I’m an idiot? No, actually, I know you do.”

With a flick of his wand, he levitated Harry and set him on the floor of the compartment, then reached over and pulled off the cloak.

“Oh, that must be so uncomfortable.” There was a hint of sarcasm in the mockery that didn’t make sense, and an equally puzzling lack of hostility in his face. “But then, you are the one who climbed up there, aren’t you. Such good ideas you have.” Anger coiled in Harry’s gut as Malfoy turned his attention to the cloak, examining it idly. “And then there’s this. Can’t even take care of a cloak, can you? I knew that already, though. Did you even tell anyone you were coming here? No, you’re such a prat, you probably had the idea and just jumped in headfirst, didn’t you?”

With a casual flick of his wand, he shot off a silver streak of light that passed through the wall of the compartment in a flash.

He crouched down, his face so close to Harry’s that their noses were nearly touching, and smirked. “You are him, after all. I’d started to wonder… But it’s quite the situation. I hadn’t expected you to figure it out. You still haven’t, of course, but then again, you are now, and before, and will always be…”

He dismissed the petrification as he stood; Harry shot to his feet as Malfoy smirked—

“…an utter clotpole.”

Harry froze.

Malfoy raised his brows at him. “What? Do you want the donkey ears back? I can do that, the voice might take a bit more work, but it’s worth it, that was the best week of my life, not that that’s saying much, but that’s what happens when your destiny’s being dictated at you every two days from a bloody annoying overgrown lizard and you have to take care of a pompous, headstrong, royal pain in the—”

“Merlin!” Malfoy stopped; Harry grabbed his shoulders, grinning. “Bloody chatterbox of a manservant you are.”

Malfoy’s—Merlin’s—face lit up in the biggest grin Harry’d ever seen on that face. The girl’s petticoat that he was, he pulled Harry into a hug, and Harry didn’t fight it, returning the hold just as tightly, breaking into a laugh. This was what had been missing, what had left him feeling like he was missing half of himself for the last weeks.

Finally, he had his brother again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, there's my take on a reincarnation(sort of)!fic. Anyone who wants to take it from here, absolutely feel free; I've been trying to continue this for like three years and I'm still blocked. Only request, I do ship Hinny, but also Harmony, but really, really not Romione, and shipping Merlin (Malfoy) with anyone in this fic just feels squicky to me; he's effectively 1500 years old, and they're all teenagers. If I do continue this, I might ship him with someone in an epilogue (at least ten years later), but right now, he's basically Nearly-Headless Nick in a teenager's body.   
> So please, for my peace of mind, at least, if you do continue this, no Malfoy ships? Pretty please?
> 
> And yeah, the next chapter of the Kíli Baggins story will hopefully be up soon. Fingers crossed!


	12. A Brother By Any Other Name...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...would still be a fantastic bro (slash wingman)

Sighing, Thorin laid his palms flat on the table; his scent was still in turmoil, but none of it came through in his voice. “Balin, give her the contract.”

When Balin hesitated, Fíli glanced to him; the old scribe wasn’t the only Dwarf at the table looking unsure, but he finally obeyed just as Fíli was thinking of stepping in. “It’s just the usual. Summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth.”

Kíli’s brows had crept higher and higher as Balin went on; Miss Baggins’ expression began to match her brother’s, but she tamped it down with visible effort and took the contract without comment. As she unfolded it, she retreated to the doorway opposite Fíli to read in the hallway’s light; Kíli scoffed disbelievingly. “‘The usual’ includes funeral arrangements? What sort of contracts do Dwarves usually fill?”

Fíli winced; Dwalin snapped, “More dangerous sorts than in a land of peace and plenty such as this.”

Shooting his brother a quelling glare, Balin kept his tone modulated. “I didn’t think to prepare another general contract, lad. I can draw one up, but it’ll take some time.”

Brows low, Kíli shook his head. “No need. I’m coming regardless.”

Fíli pointed quietly out, “Without a contract, you won’t be guaranteed any payment for your work.”

Kíli’s expression lost a bit of its hostility as he looked to Fíli; that probably oughtn’t have been as comforting as it was. “But Bell will be. I’m coming to take care of her—” Glancing to Thorin, his voice hardened. “—nothing more and nothing less.” Crossing his arms, he looked to Fíli again and shrugged. “She can pay me what she likes out of her earnings."

She scoffed quietly. “That’ll be easy enough. According to this, I’ll get up to a thirteenth of Erebor’s wealth.” As Kíli’s brows leapt up, she looked skeptically to Fíli. “Not to be indelicate, but isn’t that a bit much? It’s an entire kingdom, and dragons aren’t known for their aversion to gold. A hundredth of the wealth would probably be extravagant.”

Half the Company goggled at her; Fíli couldn’t help but blurt, “Are you actually negotiating for less money?”

She gave him a flat look. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that it’s ‘up to and not exceeding’ a thirteenth. I’ll accept whatever I’m given, but really, considering Erebor’s on the other side of the world, I’m not sure I’ll be playing a big enough role to merit a thirteenth. You’ll all be doing the real work.”

The room was entirely silent.

Fíli knew, dimly, that he was staring, but he couldn’t quite stop. No wonder these Hobbits had been so willing to take a strange child not even of their Race in.

She glanced around the room. “What?”

Gandalf just chuckled to himself. Shaking his head, Kíli gestured to the contract. “Anything problematic?”

She shrugged. “There’s a few clauses I’d like to modify a bit, but nothing too serious.”

Balin straightened indignantly in his seat. “You take issue with my work?”

That gave her pause, glancing at Balin through her lashes; between that and the way the light fell over her cheek and neck—and chest—Fíli found the room unaccountably warmer, of a sudden. “On the contrary, Master Balin, I’ve scarce had a chance to read a contract so finely crafted for nearly thirty years. But I’m afraid I will have to insist on two modifications, at least.”

Kíli frowned, craning his neck to try to read Balin’s tiny writing. “What sorts of things?”

“A return of confidentiality on the Company’s part; I’ll gladly agree not to disclose any Dwarven secrets that may come up over the journey, but I’ll ask for a written agreement that neither will the Company spread any information about Hobbits I don’t explicitly describe as common knowledge.” That wasn’t too bad; she scanned the document over again until she found her second point. “‘Company may modify or change this agreement from time to time at its sole discretion, with or without notice to Burglar’, but ‘Burglar may not modify or change the Agreement except by a writing signed by both Parties’?” She snorted, handing the contract to Kíli. “I don’t think so. A compromise that neither party will modify the contract without both parties’ agreement— that, I’ll sign. But I won’t be taken advantage of, Master Balin, no matter how skillful the writing.” She smiled to soften her words, but even so, there was no mistaking the edge to her tone.

Kíli’s expression was darkening the further he read. “The entire thing is taking advantage of you.”

“Hush, most of it’s reasonable enough.”

“It specifically says they’re going to starve you.”

“I can get by on three meals a day.”

“When you aren’t entitled to more than a thirteenth of any common fare? You’ll be skin and bones before we get to Rivendell!”

She rolled her eyes, either not noticing or not minding that Fíli and half the Company were gaping, stricken at the realization that Hobbits’ preoccupation with food wasn’t entirely due to gluttony. “So you’ll hunt for the both of us as we go— I’ll be fine.”

He scowled, turning to Balin. “You’ll change that before she signs.”

“Kíli!”

He ignored her, holding Balin’s eyes with a commanding intensity that nearly put Thorin’s to shame. “The study’s the next room past this. I suggest you change those three spots now.”

Fumbling, Balin obeyed, fleeing past a stunned Fíli— stunned and more than a bit impressed. Ori was a pushover at times, that wasn’t hard to pick up on, but Balin was made of sterner stuff. If Kíli hadn’t been so strongly of Durin’s line—so obviously Thorin’s blood—Balin likely would have argued, but as it were, Fíli would be surprised if any Longbeard were able to easily ignore him.

Most of the rest of the Company was just as taken aback, Dwalin included. They’d all seen his ready defense of Bell— of Miss Baggins when Thorin accidentally insulted her, but that had been nothing but menace. Any Dwarf—when given cause—could menace and threaten.

It was far fewer Dwarves capable of actual command. And somehow, a life in a land of farmers and luxury had taught Kíli a sliver, at least, of that skill.

Whether he had more than a sliver had yet to be seen.

Evidently already resigned to Kíli’s interference, Miss Baggins cleared her throat. “Now, if we can return to sensible business, you did say that we’ll be heading east?”

Fíli wasn’t sure who the question was meant for, but Gandalf answered for the Company. “Yes, nearly due east. And a bit north.”

“Then I assume the plan is to pass through Bree for supplies?”

When none of the Company hastened to answer, Fíli took the liberty. “Aye. After that, to follow the Great East Road to the Misty Mountains.”

Miss Baggins shared a loaded look with Kíli, both nodding subtly before she addressed— Probably Thorin, but she did glance at Fíli as she spoke. “We’ll have to meet you in Bree, then. There’s still some business to be taken care of here, and a few supplies to be procured.”

Thorin spoke, sounding as though the words were eking past a mouthful of gravel as well as gritted teeth. “Would you renege on your duties before even signing the contract?”

Fíli couldn’t help but shoot a tiny glare at the side of Thorin’s head; it wasn’t such an unreasonable request. Kíli caught his eye, looking at Fíli with what looked to be thoughtful evaluation; meanwhile, Miss Baggins had drawn herself up, looking as furious as Fíli thought she could.

“I will thank you not to insult me for a third time, Master Oakenshield. I am a Baggins. I may not have signed your ruddy contract just yet, but I have as good as given you my word, and no Baggins would break their word. Beyond that, I’m a Took.” A feral grin pulled one side of her mouth higher than the other, the white-gold of her hair and the red of her lips and the silver-green of her eyes seeming bright as gemstones, suddenly. “And this’ll make for the greatest adventure a Took ever did take, and give me a few souvenirs for the Mathom-House, I’m sure. Believe me, Master Oakenshield, I’ve no intention of running back to the Shire until I have a story to ensure I’m remembered for generations to come.”

Abruptly, Fíli realized he was staring at her; just as abruptly, he realized Kíli was staring at him, clearly holding back a laugh.

Balin entered quietly, laying the modified contract before Thorin for review, and pointing out where he’d changed things. After a few moments, Thorin gave a single, short nod and slid the paper toward Miss Baggins. Balin held a pencil of some sort out, which Kíli took and handed to his sister as she looked over the changes. Nodding, she slid the contract up until she could sign her name, which she did with unthinking ease.

Straightening, she looked to Kíli, frowning faintly. “How long will it take to reach Bree?”

“If we push?” He thought for a moment, narrowing his eyes. “Four days.”

“Won’t take more than two days to finish up here.”

“Maybe only one.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then nodded, Miss Baggins sweeping her eyes over the Company; it was probably just wishful thinking that it seemed her eyes lingered a fraction longer on Fíli than the others. “Seven days, then. We’ll meet you in Bree— at the Prancing Pony.”

Gandalf chuckled. “You’ll likely reach it first.”

She grinned viciously at him. “Bet you a crateful of wine we do.”

Kíli shook his head before Gandalf could answer. “No, no bet, easy money.”

“Still fun.”

“This is how we lost the westernmost fields, Bell.”

“Honestly, that woman is the most inveterate cheat I’ve ever met.”

“You knew that before you wagered against her.”

“I was too young to know any better—”

“Eight years ago?”

“—you ought to have looked out for me better!”

Smirking, Kíli caught her in a gentle chokehold, mussing her hair. “I’ll always look out for you, Sweet-Bell, now go to bed before you fall asleep on our guests.” He kissed her noisily on the cheek as she squawked, and just laughed at the swat she gave him as she squirmed away.

“I’m going to get you for that.” The threat might have been more menacing if she hadn’t been red as a garnet. Kíli and Gandalf both laughed; glancing at the rest of the room, her cheeks darkened further. She drew herself up with as much dignity as was possible after that display, and inclined her head to the room in general. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I have packing to do.”

With that, she vanished, avoiding their eyes; Kíli calmed more quickly than Gandalf, and smiled at the Company. “There are rooms already prepared for you all, though you will need to share.”

“Dear boy—”

“We already pulled your armchair in front of the fire, Gandalf.” Kíli’s eyes danced as he smiled at the Wizard, who only laughed and muttered something about ‘Tooks’ before quitting the room. Looking again to the Company, Kíli scanned them thoughtfully, then nodded. “Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, you’ll be in the guest bedroom— it’s the last door on your left in the west hallway. Dori, Nori, Ori, you’ll be in the study— you heard where I told Balin it was? Good. Óin, Glóin, you’ll be in the spare room, by the front door. Dwalin, Balin, you’ll be in the parlour. You’ll have to keep Gandalf company, I’m afraid, but his smoke rings are hypnotic enough to put anyone to sleep, believe me. Thorin, Fíli, you’ll be in the room adjoining the study. Fíli, if you wouldn’t mind helping me move a few blankets and such around? We didn’t know beforehand that there would be groups of three to accommodate.”

Fíli nodded, of course—he’d take all the time with his brother that Kíli was willing to give him—and they left the Company to their drinks.

The smial was a bit of a warren, he’d already seen, everything wood and warm and low-ceilinged— Kíli had to duck his head under the doorway to a storeroom. Fíli bit back a laugh, but didn’t hide his grin. “You weren’t quite this height when you built the place, I take it?”

Snorting, Kíli handed him a pile of blankets. “I was sixteen, so no. And I said earlier, Bell just exaggerates sometimes. I hammered a few nails and doodled wolves all over Da’s plans, that’s about all.”

Fíli’s heart thumped painfully. “Wolves?”

Kíli hummed quietly, loading himself up with pillows. “I was fairly obsessed with them for most of my childhood. Not sure why, just know I thought they were the greatest things on Arda.”

So he didn’t remember. That simplified things, Fíli supposed, but still, he wished he could be fully honest with him. Maybe they still could.

After this full moon.

Fíli backed carefully out of the room, then trailed behind Kíli as he led the way. The parlour was the first stop, Gandalf already puffing out smoke rings— Kíli was right, those were hypnotic. Kíli lifted a handful of blankets off of Fíli’s pile while Fíli was distracted and set them beside Gandalf, who nodded to him, but that was all.

The room was dominated by the hearth, the chairs and sofa orbiting it, but there were bookcases lining the walls, as well. It looked comfortable. Compared to the three-room cottage Thorin had brought Fíli home to so many years before, it truly was a palace.

Fíli followed mutely behind Kíli as they made their way to the spare room at the end of the hall; inside, a modest bed framed a small window, moonlight streaming over the carpet and pillow-mattress already waiting. Even as the reminder of how much luxury Kíli had known here ached, Fíli frowned. “It doesn’t look as though this room needs anything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Kíli agreed, setting down his pillows and moving behind Fíli; the door closed and locked a moment later, and Fíli’s blood ran cold. “But there’re a couple things I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

Fíli dropped the blankets and turned to face him, hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t what he dreaded it was—

Before he could react, he was in the same sort of chokehold that Kíli’d put Bell into a few minutes earlier. Grabbing reflexively at the arm around his throat, Fíli jolted further to realize that despite being raised by soft Halflings, Kíli was strong even for a Dwarf.

Conversationally, Kíli said almost directly into Fíli’s ear, “I remember you being much bigger.” Laughing, he pushed Fíli away. “You seemed huge as Thorin back then! I half thought when I finally found you, you’d still tower over me.”

Fíli turned slowly to look at him, and slowly, let himself believe that he wasn’t seeing what he wanted to see. Tentative hope warming him, he grinned at his brother through a blur. “When? Not if?”

Shaking his head, Kíli’s eyes shone over his own grin. “It’s always seemed a matter of time.”

“And for me.” Fíli swallowed hard, barely holding onto his smile. “They all said you were dead. I knew you weren’t.”

Grin widening, Kíli scrubbed his eyes.

And Fíli took his chance. In another instant, he had Kíli on his stomach in a headlock. “Still a better grappler than you, though.”

Barking out a laugh, Kíli managed to flip them both, but couldn’t quite break Fíli’s grip. “Alright, fine, I’m out of practice!”

Taking that as a concession, Fíli grinned and released him. “Massively. I hope the rest of your fighting’s more up to snuff.”

Standing, Kíli held out his hand with a grin. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Fíli took it, but only used it to flip Kíli onto the bed; he could barely speak for laughing, let alone stand. “Mahal, Kee, you were a better wrestler when you were a toddler!”

Head hanging off the bed besides Fíli’s, Kíli laughed back; sputtering, Fíli spat out the strands of Kíli’s hair that found their way into his mouth. “Trust me, I’m the best fighter in the Shire.”

“That’s hard?”

Kíli laughed again; Fíli’d forgotten how happy he always was. Cheeks aching, Fíli realized he was grinning fit to burst. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. “Not in the slightest— Mum and I had a standing bet, every week I didn’t make one of the other boys cry or run screaming, I’d get a plate of cookies to myself.” As he rolled gracefully off the bed—somehow avoiding kicking Fíli—he added musingly, “It does make it easier to keep the berks away from Bell.”

Standing himself, Fíli looked incredulously at his brother. “You have to step in often?”

He expected a laugh, a joke, maybe some quip about how tiny Hobbits were to him. Instead, Kíli stilled, something more somber creeping into his eyes. Slowly, he murmured, “Hobbits and Dwarves… I don’t think we’re so dissimilar. But there’s a difference between a Dwarf acting according to his nature and a Hobbit growing contrary to her own. Growing up with a Dwarf for a brother…” A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “…Bell’s not exactly a typical Hobbit. Probably why Gandalf picked her out to be your Burglar.”

Thinking back to a childhood under a near-stranger’s roof, sleeping in another boy’s bed, facing a class of striplings who wanted his namesake, not him— Fíli fought a grimace. “Children can be cruel.”

Kíli snorted softly, cynically. “They don’t have anything on adults.”

Fíli’s brow rose. “They endorsed bullying?”

At that, Kíli barked out another laugh; hearing that, it was impossible to imagine anyone denying his relation to Thorin. “This wasn’t bullying, this was politics, and no one does dirty politics like Hobbits.”

That was a bit hard to believe. “Tell me that again when you have to deal with plots to seduce you into marrying away your inheritance.”

But Kíli just grinned, a bit maniacally and a lot viciously. “You’d be surprised. I wasn’t exaggerating much when I called her the Shire’s most eligible bachelorette.”

Heart sinking, Fíli hid the disappointment behind curiosity. “So she’s plenty of suitors, then?”

“Mm, lots of men after Bag-End and her property, not so many after her. Which brings me to the second thing I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

He turned slowly to face Fíli; the chill in his blood returned at the evil glint in Kíli’s eye. “Which would be?”

After a long moment, Kíli relaxed a bit, his grin smaller but more heartfelt than most Fíli’d seen from him that evening. “I’ve missed you, Fee. I never forgot you, and I never gave up on finding you again. I’ve been wishing since Bell was born that she and I and you could all be one big family.”

He moved forward as he spoke; it might have been innocuous, but that glint… “I believe you.”

He came to a stop directly in front of Fíli, and clasped his shoulders; in the dim light, he looked so much like Thorin it was eerie. “So I want you to know, Fee.” In an instant, his gaze hardened. “Hurt Bell and I’ll kill you myself.”

Fíli’s brows shot up at the threat, but he couldn’t help but laugh. “Mahal’s mercy, Kee, you’re still a Dwarf where it counts!”

A smile tugged at Kíli’s mouth, but his eyes didn’t soften. “It’s not a game, Fíli. She’s my sister.”

Holding Kíli’s eyes, Fíli let his smile fall away, matching Kíli’s sobriety, if not his grimness. “I understand. No true Dwarf would toy with any woman’s affections, no matter her race. I can’t promise never to misstep, but I’ve no intention of hurting her intentionally.”

A quicksilver grin practically lit the entire room. “Now that, I believe.”

Clapping him on the shoulders again, Kíli stepped back and picked up his pillows again; belatedly, Fíli realized what he’d said. “That— That’s not to say I mean to court her—”

Kíli just raised a brow at him, still grinning. “That’s not what your face said an hour ago.”

Fíli chucked a pillow from off the bed at him.

Kíli raised an arm to block it, but only laughed otherwise. “Really, though, Fee, I’d be glad for the two of you just to get along. Past that, try and make friends, at least.”

Snorting, Fíli caught the pillow Kíli threw at his head. “I can promise to try, at least. She seems…” His voice failed him, mind whirling with all his different impressions of her; after too long, he finished, “Magnetic.”

Kíli gave him an odd look. “All the words you could pick, and you choose ‘magnetic’?”

Picking up his load of blankets, Fíli shrugged. “You’re her brother. If you know a single word that can sum her up, please, enlighten me.”

Grinning crookedly, Kíli shook his head and shifted his load around enough for him to open the door.

“Wait.”

Kíli looked curiously ‘round at him.

Fíli hadn’t actually meant to speak, but didn’t regret the impulse. “One more thing.” He smiled crookedly. “This might be the last time we can speak privately for the next several months.”

Eyes softening, Kíli ducked his head a fraction to hold Fíli’s gaze a bit more sympathetically. “I don’t blame you, Fíli. You were as much a child as I was.”

Fíli blinked at him for a long moment. “Oh. That… wasn’t what I was going to ask, but…” Shoulders dropping, he blinked hard against the tears he could feel building. “Thank you.”

Kíli didn’t respond, but the mingled scents of affection, guilt, relief, hesitance, and hope filled the room.

After another long moment, Fíli gathered himself enough to speak. “But I wanted to ask about what Thorin said earlier.”

Kíli quirked a sardonic brow. “He’s said a lot of things tonight.”

Fíli huffed lightly, but couldn’t manage a full smile. “What he said to Bell that nearly made you kill him.”

Immediately, Kíli’s expression hardened into the same Durin glare he’d worn at the time. “What about it?”

If his arms hadn’t been full, he’d have spread his hands; as it was, he just raised his brows, keeping his expression nothing but respectful. “Well, it seems obvious that Dwarves and Hobbits don’t use some words the same way. To me, and to Thorin, I’m sure, he only called her a Hobbit. He was being an oaf, and more mannerless than he was accusing you two of being, but you reacted as though he’d called her something obscene.”

Kíli’s nostrils flared, but he exhaled slowly and his expression softened a fraction. “He did. By Hobbit sensibilities.” Glancing at the door, he added lightly, “Hobbits have incredible hearing, by the by. I could never get away with anything unless Mum and Da were out of the smial entirely.”

It hurt, to hear ‘mum’ and remember he didn’t mean their Amad, but Fíli ignored the sting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After a moment, Kíli spoke again, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Hobbits consider themselves half of nothing. For one of the Tall Folk to call them that—when Men pass through Bree, for example—it’s a slap in the face. A reminder that they think Hobbits are less than them. For someone ‘sensibly sized’,” he smiled briefly, but it fell quickly away, “to use that word, it’s different. Tall Folk don’t understand. We do. Or we should. And Hobbits… there’s nothing more important to Hobbit than safety, family, and from someone our size…”

He shook his head, brow furrowed. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like… telling them to their face that you think they’re just property. That you don’t consider them a person. Just a thing.”

Fíli could only stare, chest aching. “That’s horrible.”

Shrugging loosely, Kíli offered him a tired smile. “Hence why I was so quick to step in.” Eyes and face falling into a distant frown, he added, “Especially with him looming over her like he was.”

Despite himself, Fíli nodded. He loved Thorin, but the sight had been… disquieting. To say the least. “Especially with as afraid she looked.”

Kíli nodded. “She’s tall for a Hobbit. Not sure if you noticed. We’ve taken our fair share of trips to Bree and such, but still, she’s not used to being looked down on.”

“Except by you,” Fíli joked.

For a moment, he wished he could take the words back, but then Kíli grinned at him, bright and easy. “Well, I am her big brother. Have to live up to that.”

Fíli snorted. “At least one of us can.”

At that, Kíli burst out laughing, Fíli joining him, and they walked back into the smial proper.

Most of the Company was in the parlour when they passed it, Thorin and Balin speaking quietly in the doorway. They fell silent as Fíli and Kíli passed, but Fíli ignored them for the time being. Whatever they had to say to him, they’d say it regardless of what he wished. For now, he was going to focus on his brother.

The very end of the hall held two doors opposite each other, one scuffed from bottom to doorknob, the other clean and shining. Kíli led the way through the clean door, but Fíli couldn’t help but glance curiously at the other as he followed. Kíli’s scent was all over that end of the hall— and his fingerprints were all over those scuff-marks. “Your room, I’m guessing?”

When he looked back, Kíli just grinned at him. “How’d you guess?”

Fíli laughed back, taking in the room. “Nice setup. Have guests often?”

It wasn’t large, but it was as comfortable as the room they’d just left, with a larger window at the far end. Kíli smiled stiffly, setting up a makeshift mattress beside the one already waiting. “No, we made it up this morning. Good for all of you that Gandalf bothered to warn Bell that you’d be staying over, or we wouldn’t have had time— half of you’d be kipping in the parlour.”

Fíli couldn’t help but laugh, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. “Why do you two even need so much space?”

Kíli sobered. “We don’t.”

And Fíli realized. “Mahal, Kee, I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

Shaking his head, Kíli stood. “It's fine. It’s been years.”

“It’s been years since we lost you,” he pointed out quietly. “It never really stops hurting.”

“I thought you didn’t think I was dead.”

“Like ‘indefinitely missing’ is any less painful.”

Kíli grimaced; for a moment, Fíli thought he’d gone too far. But he only shook his head again. “Come on. The study next.”

Going back into the hallway for a moment, they retraced their steps as far as the last door on that side of the smial; the study could have been Balin’s, but for the wooden walls and the large window set over the desk. He could barely even see the walls, books lining the entire room, papers stacked neatly on one side of the desk, a quill and inkwell on the other. A large armchair caught Fíli’s eye as Kíli set up the mattresses, wood shavings caught in the fabric on one arm and a whittling knife on a nearby end table.

“Kíli?”

Fíli looked reflexively to the door he hadn’t noticed on the side, but Kíli didn’t even look up. “Yeah.”

Faintly, Fíli could hear a relieved breath from behind the door. “You had me worried for a second, I thought the study was being commandeered already—”

The door opened abruptly, Bell— Miss Baggins already half in the study before she realized that Fíli was there; he whirled around at the same moment that she darted back inside, his entire face burning.

“Sorry, I—”

Staring desperately at the wall opposite her door, he shook his head. “No, that was my fault—” His fault that now he knew exactly what she looked like in a dressing gown and nightdress, and his fault that now he’d seen far, far too clearly that her curves weren’t due to any of the padding he knew Dwarrowdams sometimes used.

Kíli groaned. “No, that was my fault— I should have let you know that I wasn’t alone.”

She scoffed; belatedly, Fíli realized that she must not have completely closed the door again, as it was far easier now to hear her. “You think? Give me a moment to grab my things.”

Standing, Kíli shooed Fíli out; he didn’t understand, but obeyed regardless.

Kíli steered him to the side of the door, facing toward the parlour. “Just to reiterate, turn around right now and I will hurt you.”

Fíli scoffed lightly, pulse still too loud in his ears. “Bit vague, for a threat.”

“Well, with how much blood’s in your cheeks right now, I didn’t think there’d be enough in the rest of your head to process anything too complicated.”

“Kee, stop being a beast. Fíli, goodnight, do give my regards to Gandalf.”

Her voice was too close, her scent even closer, wrapping all around him, and he didn’t dare try to answer; he wasn’t sure if what left would be a farewell or a howl. Kíli’s scent was thick with laughter. “He will, I’m sure. Just put my nightclothes outside, will you?”

“Put you outside.”

“If you like, but you know I’ll just put salt in the sugar tin if you make me sleep on floorboards without even a pillow.”

“Troll.”

“Goblin.”

Fíli heard her start to walk away, but kept his eyes fixed forward until he heard the door close behind her. Releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he glanced sidelong at Kíli. “You two share a room often?”

He grimaced at Fíli. “Don’t say it like that, it just sounds wrong. We’d already planned on camping out in the backyard if we needed to free up another room; the way things worked out, we’ll just camp in mine.”

Fíli frowned, uncomfortable with the idea. “You shouldn’t have done that. We’re used to sleeping rough— we’d never have asked you to make a lady give up her own bed.”

The look Kíli gave him was somewhere between bemused, amused, and melancholy. “Dwarves really do things differently, don’t they? You didn’t ‘make’ her give up her bed, and neither did I. This is just… how things are done,” he shrugged. “You’re guests. It wouldn’t be right to expect anything of you, and we wouldn’t be Bagginses if we spared you any convenience or comfort. It wouldn’t have been any more to ask if we’d had to camp outside after all.”

Hearing Kíli say ‘Dwarves’ like he wasn’t one of them unsettled Fíli more than he could properly express, more than the idea of giving up one’s own bed—own home—for the sake of complete strangers. “Still.”

Shaking his head, Kíli strode forward, nodding for Fíli to join him. “The pantry’s here, like you saw earlier, and the kitchen’s at your disposal. Let the others know that applies to them, as well.”

Fíli frowned as Kíli turned in to the room in question, moving Thorin’s dishes into the sink. “You aren’t… There are still more questions— we’ve barely had any time to speak with you."

“There’ll be time on the Quest.”

Kíli’s voice was hard as stone; Fíli fought a flinch.

Sighing, Kíli’s tense posture drooped; turning to face Fíli, he gentled his tone somewhat. “I know that all of you have questions. So do I. But this…” For a moment, something almost stricken crossed Kíli’s face. “This isn’t what Bell and I expected. Besides,” he smiled, but for the first time, Fíli could see a touch of strain in it. “I’ve gotten to talk with the only person I really want to tonight.”

It took a moment to connect; Fíli wasn’t sure whether he was touched to be singled out or grieved that the rest of the Company—mostly Thorin—had managed to already put distance between them and Kíli.

Still, the strain faded from Kíli’s smile as he clapped Fíli on the shoulder, eyes bright. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you again, Fee. Actually,” he laughed, the sound bubbling up in and around his words, “you’re probably the only person who does have any idea.”

Fíli couldn’t help but laugh with him, and pulled him into another hug; Durin’s scent surrounding him, something in Fíli settled for the first time in decades, settling further as Kíli returned the embrace just as tightly. “Don’t be too hard on the others. Amad always says some Dwarves have more stone between their ears than in their bones.”

Another laugh left Kíli, this one tinged with tears, wonder and grief in his scent. “Sounds like she and Bell’d get on.”

“They will.” Drawing back, Fíli held Kíli’s eyes. “We’re going to pull off this Quest, and you’re going to meet Amad again, and introduce her and Bell.” He waited a beat before grinning crookedly. “And then they’ll team up against all the rest of us.”

Kíli just grinned back and tapped his forehead against Fíli’s. “Go on and join the others. Or get yourself a drink. Whatever you want to do— this is your home as long as it’s Bell’s and mine. Tell the others that goes for them as well.”

Fíli nodded, drawing fully back. “I will. Ah…” He nearly swallowed the words and fled, but managed an embarrassed smile somehow, raising his brows hopefully. “Tell Bell goodnight for me?”

Kíli audibly stifled a laugh. “Will do. Don’t get any funny ideas before we catch up with you all in Bree.”

Nodding, Fíli forced himself to move toward the door, reluctant to lose sight of Kíli now. “Seven days?”

“Or sooner.” When Fíli still hesitated, Kíli bent his head slightly, holding his eyes. “Hey. I’ll see you in the morning before you leave.” He smiled. “Can’t make any promises for Bell; she’s a complete goblin in the mornings.”

At that, Fíli had to laugh, if only softly. “Should be interesting. Óin and Dwalin are the same.” And Thorin, but he didn’t think that would go over well with Kíli at the moment.

Smile pulling into a smirk, Kíli raised a brow. “Want to pull all their bedrolls together in a few weeks?”

Laughing in earnest at the image, Fíli nodded, backing out of the room. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Kíli just grinned, turning back to the dishes. “I think this is the beginning of a wonderful partnership, don’t you?”

Fíli could only grin, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Kee.”

It was a moment before Kíli responded, long enough that Fíli was halfway down the hall, but he still heard the smile in Kíli’s quiet voice. “Night, Fee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this should be interesting. And definitely awkward for Fíli and Bel.  
> We'll just have to see how the morning goes, won't we?
> 
> If you haven't checked out the new chapter of This Isn't My Idea, that's up, if you have, let me know what you thought!
> 
> Увидимся!


	13. What Leon doesn't know...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...could fill an entire season, but he's catching up. I hope you guys remember the episode with the tournament and Arthur getting butthurt about Leon possibly going easy on him, because I'm not going to waste time summing up everything that happens.

Merlin frowned at Leon’s back. He’d summoned them—well, Gaius—before they could even begin to eat the dinner she’d so painstakingly procured for them—by catching it when Arthur threw it at her—and then walked so quickly that Merlin hadn’t been able to catch up.

Well, she could, but Gaius couldn’t, and he was beginning to need a bit of help on stairs.

But it was only a few moments further before they reached the king. All three of them bowed—Gaius more deeply than Leon, Merlin much more deeply than Gaius—and Leon opened a trunk to reveal a corpse.

Even as he stepped back, Gaius moved forward, Merlin rising onto her tiptoes to see properly. The man inside had been stuffed there, forced into a fetal position, but she couldn’t see any injuries. Catching the venomous sneer the king was giving her, Merlin blanched and stepped back behind Leon.

The knight gave her an odd look, but she was starting to get used to those. She thought he was beginning to get used to her—after more than a month, she hoped so—but still, she didn’t understand him at all. He wasn’t an unfriendly man—if Uther hadn’t been there, she’d have been asking him all the questions going around her brain—and she was beginning to really like him. But still, he didn’t make sense.

Uther’s voice broke through her thoughts, but she didn’t catch the words, only really hearing Gaius’ response. “His neck’s been broken. There’s scarcely a mark on the flesh; whoever killed him knew exactly what he was doing.”

Before Merlin could even think of a question, Leon addressed the king. “Earlier this evening, an intruder was spotted in the lower town.”

Her breath caught, alarm chilling her. Leon glanced back at her, brow furrowed, as Uther spoke. “Then I fear it’s true— Odin has sent an assassin to kill Arthur.”

“An assassin?” She regretted the blurt as soon as it left her lips, but it was too late.

Leon’s frown deepened; Gaius turned to look at her, and worse, so did Uther, addressing her directly. “Have you had any word from Arthur since he left for the northern borders?”

Swallowing the sick feeling she always got when Uther remembered she existed, she shook her head. “No, none.”

“With this assassin in Camelot, we must be thankful Arthur isn’t here.” Worry gnawing at her, she almost jumped as Uther continued, “Search the entire town. I want the assassin found before Arthur returns.”

Leon half-bowed, already moving to go. “Yes, my lord.”

Gaius left after him, and Merlin slipped away, out of the keep.

Leon stalked through the tents, head on a swivel. He hadn’t slept a wink, searching for the assassin, but neither he nor any of the guards he’d commanded had found any trace of the man. But exhausted as he was, he hadn’t forgotten the hunted look in Merlin’s eyes when she’d learned of the assassin.

Or when she’d lied about not hearing from Arthur. He’d spoken with her enough times since seeing her fight Sigan to have borne witness to several instances apiece of truth, half-truth, and outright lie. And she wasn’t much of a liar. Half-truths and elaborate yarns, those she showed a deal of skill in, but when it came to flat-out lying, she had too many tells to count, if one looked closely.

And he knew that she was serving ‘Sir William of Deira’, who’d defeated Leon soundly the day before, with both form and technique more perfect than he’d ever seen on anyone but Arthur.

He didn’t, however, know where ‘Sir William’ was posted.

Movement caught his eye as a small figure took off from a tent at a run, and he set off after her. Gut twisting, he caught up easily despite his fatigue. “Merlin!”

She stumbled, twisting to look back at him, but neither fell nor slowed. “No time, Leon!”

“What’s going on?” He ran beside her, catching hold of her arm to steady her when she stumbled again.

The look she gave him was wary, but desperate, but she bolted forward when Gwen came into view just ahead. “Gwen! Where’s Arthur?”

Glancing fearfully at Leon as he caught up, Gwen pointed to the field, stammering, “He’s about to joust.”

“He’s jousting against the assassin!” Merlin took off again, not onto the field, but behind the line of spectators; still reeling, Leon followed, Gwen behind him.

Without skirts to slow him, he was easily able to catch up to Merlin. “What are you doing? We must stop the match!”

Merlin just shook her head, watching the field with naked desperation in her eyes as the two contestants spurred their horses forward. As Leon looked toward the knights—toward Arthur—Merlin darted forward.

The motion drew his eye back to her, just in time to see her mouth move and her eyes flash gold; another abrupt motion drew his attention back to the field, to the assassin as he lurched in his seat, giving Arthur the opening he needed to unhorse him.

Merlin ran forward again, toward Arthur, and again, Leon followed, struggling to process the rapid turn of events.

The assassin had been on the field. He’d almost killed Arthur. Merlin had stopped him, with magic.

He’d worried that she was helping the assassin, but once again, she’d saved Arthur’s life at risk of her own; she’d had no way of knowing who could have seen her, including Leon.

Reaching Arthur, she actually reached up to help him off his horse; scoffing lightly, Leon nudged her out of the way to help him himself. She stepped back—with more than a foot between their heights, he was far better suited to the task—but hovered, supporting Arthur from the other side as they led him off the field.

Reaching the tents, Merlin darted ahead to lead the way and hold the fabric aside as Leon all but carried Arthur in; belatedly, Arthur made a slight noise of protest, trying and failing to push Leon away, and Merlin scoffed. “Oh, stuff it, clotpole, he already knows.”

There was another man inside, the ‘Sir William’ Leon had seen on the field— or the face of ‘Sir William’, anyway. He moved out of the way, alarmed by the clamor but clearly clueless.

Gwen fluttered around the tent, pulling together rudimentary bandages; for the first time, Leon realized that Arthur was bleeding. “What happened?”

Batting Merlin’s hand away as she tried to remove his helmet, Arthur pulled it off himself and sent aggravated glares at both her and Leon. “That’s just what I’d like to know.”

Merlin spoke before Leon could, as rapidly as Leon had ever heard her. “Leon saw me leaving Sir Alynor’s tent—he’s dead—and followed, I didn’t exactly have a chance to send him off, with you about to be murdered and everything.”

All four of the other people in the tent goggled at her. Arthur squawked, “What?”

Taking a deliberate breath, Merlin slowed down a bit. “You were jousting against the assassin. He killed Sir Alynor and took his place.” She grimaced, sorrow and guilt warring in her expression. “I spoke to him earlier— I thought he was just a visiting knight, but he must have known I was your servant and followed me here. There’s no other way he could have known to take Sir Alynor’s place.”

The dull roar of the crowd rose for a moment, pulling Merlin’s attention away.

Looking back at Arthur, she gave him a small, tired smile. “The people are waiting for their champion.” Glancing at Leon, she added teasingly, “You can finally hold an honest victory over Leon’s head.”

But Arthur didn’t move.

Gently, she prompted, “It’s time to reveal yourself.”

Brow furrowed, Arthur’s eyes swept over the room; resolve easing away his frown, he nodded to ‘Sir William’. “You must go and collect the trophy.”

The other three exchanged startled glances; not understanding their confusion, Leon held his tongue. Gwen spoke softly, “I thought this was going to be your moment of glory.”

Arthur didn’t answer for several moments, the two gazing at each other long enough that Leon raised a brow at Merlin, who only offered a tiny shrug. He’d seen them dancing around each other since he’d returned from Alba, but this was significantly more weighty than a mere flirtation. Finally, Arthur deferred, “Perhaps this… is a time for humility.”

Now Merlin was the one raising an incredulous brow; Gwen smiled warmly at Arthur, who nodded again at ‘Sir William’. The man took his leave, and Arthur immediately tried to stand. Both woman scolded him before swiftly undoing the fastenings on his chestplate, Gwen continuing to scold him as Merlin swapped out the dressing on his wound.

Leon watched the proceedings with no small amount of amusement, especially as Arthur tried and failed to argue his way out.

Once the women were satisfied he wouldn’t drop dead as soon as he was on his feet, they moved to help him up; at that, Leon did move forward, shooing Merlin away. She shot him a disgruntled glare, but was already moving to grab a cloak for Arthur. Once he was on his feet, Arthur was able enough to walk on his own, with the occasional support as he stumbled, which Leon was happy to give his prince.

The four of them moved to the sidelines of the field, watching as ‘Sir William’ accepted the adulation of the crowd. Merlin had ended up on Leon’s other side from Arthur, and he leaned down so as not to shout the question, “Who is that, by the by?”

Clapping and grinning with the crowd, Merlin rose onto her tiptoes to answer, leaning her shoulder against his arm to help steady her. “Lennart, he’s a farmer from one of the outlying villages.”

Frowning, he looked over the man again. “How do you know he wasn’t working with the assassin?”

She snorted inelegantly. “First off, he’s not the brightest. Secondly, he’s from completely the wrong end of Camelot to even know where Odin’s kingdom is— near Keteren. That’s not mentioning that he was well compensated for all this, and he owed me a favor, anyway. Trust me, he won’t talk.”

“Owed you a favor?”

She nodded, nearly falling over as she waved energetically at the false knight, who lifted his sword jubilantly. Putting a bit more weight against Leon’s arm, she explained, “His village isn’t far from the one I grew up in— just on the Camelot side of the border. I hid him from his brother a few years ago after he took a prank a bit badly.”

He was starting to think it would be decades before he had a single conversation with her that didn’t utterly bewilder him. “What?”

Laughing, she gripped his forearm and pulled herself a bit higher; he glanced down to see that she was balancing literally on her toes, rather than the balls of her feet. “He thought it would be funny to dump a bucket of manure on his brother the morning of his wedding. His brother chased Lennart all the way to the border, trailing muck the entire way. Will and I stuffed him into one of my Mum’s dresses and told his brother than Lennart was Will’s sister, and I talked the brother into thinking Len’d doubled back home. He hid out with us for a few more days, until his brother’d cooled down a bit.”

Still confused, Leon just laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Still grinning, she shrugged and dropped back down onto her heels. Shaking his head, Leon joined in the applause for a few moments. For a peasant farmer, he acted the part of a knight admirably well.

Skidding to a stop in front of Arthur and Leon, she nodded to the prince. “They’re waiting for you.”

Arthur nodded, drawing away from Leon’s support. “The fewer people know of your involvement, the better.”

“Sire!”

At the same moment, she squawked, “Arthur!”

Arthur glared both of them into silence. “Did they see you?”

Scoffing, she threw her arms into the air. “How should I know? I came back here as soon as I saw them.” And made sure that they were who they said they were, but as she’d done that magically, it didn’t exactly bear telling.

“Then you’ll stay back with Leon.”

“But—”

“And that’s the end of it, Merlin!”

Scowling, she stalked toward Leon, who was already attempting to argue himself. “Sire, really, at least allow—”

“Don’t bother, Leon. He’s impossible.” Glaring venomously at Arthur, she wasn’t surprised when he glared back just as viciously.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Arthur stalked away, with much more dignity than Merlin had bothered to show.

When Leon made to follow him anyway, Merlin grabbed his arm and pulled him in the opposite direction. “What— Merlin! He—”

“Shush.” Pushing him behind a tree, Merlin counted to twenty-six—shushing him as needed—then peeked out. “Alright, he bought it. Come on.”

She didn’t bother to wait for him to respond before slipping after Arthur at a diagonal— not following directly, but not moving parallel just yet. After a few moments, he did catch up, moving as quietly as she did, and not seeming to put nearly as much effort into it as she had to.

“Care to explain?”

Wincing at the terse tone, she didn’t look at him, focused on picking her steps to avoid the twigs and such that would give them away. “It’s not exactly the first time Arthur’s tried to send me off in defiance of all reason or logic. If I didn’t argue, he’d have been suspicious, but since I did, he’ll think we’re on our way back to Camelot.”

He huffed quietly, but didn’t respond right away; as they approached a ridge, she dropped to her knees to peek over it, ducking down again when she saw Arthur had reached the party and was talking with them, probably explaining his injury. Leon followed suit a moment later, only dropping to one knee, and bracing himself so he could stand at a moment’s notice. He raised a brow, keeping his voice low enough that none of the knights below would hear him. “You’re the most deceptively loyal person I’ve ever met. Or maybe the most loyally deceptive.”

Holding back a flinch at how close to home—too close—his words struck, she shrugged, keeping her voice even lower than his, knowing she’d be heard more easily than his deeper pitch. “Are you saying he doesn’t deserve that loyalty?”

He frowned at her. “Of course not.”

She shrugged again, taking another peek as she heard the group of men begin to move out. “I told you before, I’m proud to serve him. That doesn’t mean I don’t know he’s an idiot who’ll probably get himself killed the second I turn my back.”

A disbelieving laugh left Leon, and he followed as she followed the troop, easily keeping pace with her as she sped to keep pace and keep even with them. “Most people would hesitate to insult their liege.”

Snorting, she accepted his help as they came to a log too large for her to easily get over without magic. “Most people aren’t me. Besides, Arthur only slung me in gaol for talking back the first time. I think he’s gotten used to it now.”

“He did what?”

“Oh, you hadn’t—” Seeing his expression, she snickered. “I thought that story was still making the rounds. Although— fighting Cedric was a bit funnier, I suppose.”

Ducking under a branch, he prompted, “This was some time ago?”

“Yeah, back when I first came to Camelot, about—” She had to stop and think for a few moments. “Huh. About eight months ago now. Time flies. Anyway, so I was wandering around the keep, minding my own business and exploring—I’d only arrived in Camelot the day before—and then I see some pillock throwing knives at someone! This great, blond prat is standing there laughing and telling this poor, terrified servant to ‘run faster’, because he wanted some ‘moving target practice’!”

Leon groaned, shaking his head. “And I take it you…”

“Got into some trouble?” She laughed, barely remembering that they were meant to stay quiet. “The servant dropped the shield and it rolled right to me, so clearly the only rational thing to do was to stand on it so he couldn’t pick it up again. I said something like I thought Arthur’d had enough fun—I didn’t know who he was, obviously—and he— oh, right, I called him ‘friend’, and he asked if I knew him, I said no, I can’t remember what he said then, and then I said something like ‘I’d never have a friend who was such an ass’.”

Leon tripped badly enough to send him to one knee, shaking with silent laughter. Snickering herself, she helped him up and went on as they kept following the knights. “Honestly, it was barely even true— Will could be a real git sometimes. Anyway, I started to leave, and he called me stupid, so obviously I couldn’t let that stand. One thing led to another, and then… well, I tried to hit him.”

Biting back a snort, Leon deadpanned, “I’m sure that ended well.”

Merlin didn’t even try to hold her own snort back. “It ended with my arm getting half twisted off and then being tossed into a gaol cell for the night. And then the next day—after being shouted at by Gaius to not get in trouble like that again—”

“Gaius?”

She blinked at him. “I think I haven’t noticed how many things about Camelot are just common knowledge now. Gaius is my uncle. I came to Camelot to be his ward, at first. Then— well, anyway, Gaius was only able to talk Arthur down to putting me in the stocks for the entire morning, and then once I was let go and I was on my way back to the keep, I ran into Arthur again.”

“Oh, no.”

Mock-glaring at him as he laughed, she knocked her shoulder against his arm. “Tell me about it. I tried to just walk away, I really did, but that man. Bloody-minded pillock of a prat, he kept needling me, and if you think I have problems with impulse control now, you’ve no idea how bad I used to be. I can’t remember what he said, and then I said something about him still being an ass, just a royal one, and he just laughed. I don’t think he could believe what he was hearing— I’m still fairly sure I’m the first person who’s talked to him like that. One thing led to another and he challenged me to a fight, which I couldn’t just take lying down, obviously—”

“Does this story end with you being jailed again?”

Grinning in answer to his smile, she shook her head. “I almost won the fight, actually, but he was able to beat me, and then when the guards grabbed me, he waved them off. I still got yelled at again, though. But Gaius wasn’t angry enough to keep me from going to Lady Helen of Mora’s performance a couple days later, and then it turned out ‘Lady Helen’ was an imposter who was trying to kill Arthur, and I saved his life, and then the king made me Arthur’s maidservant.”

She paused for a moment, frowning. “I’m still not sure why he did that. Still, it’s a good thing he did; I’ve saved the clotpole’s life more times than I can count already, and it’s been less than a year of working for him.”

“You… saved Arthur’s life.”

She nodded, ignoring a twinge of hurt at his skepticism. “She cast some sort of sleeping spell that made everyone else pass out, but I covered my ears and that blocked it well enough that I stayed awake. Then a chandelier broke while she was walking under it and the sleeping spell broke, but then she threw a knife at Arthur, but I pulled him out of the way.” Remembering, she scowled. “Bloody huge prat practically flattened me— I was bruised for days.”

Leon gave her an odd look. “The chandelier just happened to break just as she walked under it?”

Gut roiling, she backtracked, “Well, she was standing still for a few seconds, and I think the rope was old, and the spell she cast made everything old anyway, so that probably weakened the rope—”

“Merlin, I was just clarifying,” he smiled slightly to take the bite out of his words.

“Oh. Right.” Smiling sheepishly, she couldn’t hold the expression for more than a few moments. “It’s just— even a hint of a suspicion in Camelot…”

He just nodded, and they only walked for a few minutes.

Once Arthur and the others reached the gates, Leon motioned for them to circle to a different gate. “Who’s Will?”

The name knocked all her breath from her; it was a long moment before she could answer at all— she couldn’t force any mask over her grief at all. “A friend.”

He watched her with obvious concern. “You mentioned him earlier, I—”

“No, it’s fine.” Realizing that they’d stopped moving, she forced herself forward again. “I hadn’t even noticed, before. First time I’ve talked about him since…” Swallowing thickly, she shook her head.

Neither of them spoke for several moments. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She wiped her eyes. “He could be a real git, did I say that?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond. “And he was one of the angriest people I know, and he got us in trouble more than I ever did, and he was my best friend and he died saving Arthur and I.” Scoffing wetly, she shook her head again, not quite able to stop talking now she’d started. “He hated royals and he hated nobles and he hated me for leaving Ealdor, leaving him, but still, he was right there beside me every time I needed him.”

Sniffling, she scrubbed her sleeve over her face. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m rambling.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I can’t begrudge anyone the chance to properly grieve.”

Glancing up at him, she wasn’t sure what to think when he only looked back at her sympathetically. Gut churning, she slowed to a stop, not able to meet his eyes. “I think I owe you an apology, Sir Leon.”

“For what?”

Smiling a bit at his bemusement, the humor fell quickly away. “I think I misjudged you rather badly.”

He laughed softly— why, she wasn’t sure. “How so?”

Face heating, she shrugged. “Most of the knights would have backhanded me for talking like I have been, or at least told on me to Arthur. My impulse control’s improved a lot since a year ago, but still, I don’t always think before I talk. But you— you let me ramble, and let me walk alongside you instead of making me trail back a few steps, and you’ve been kind. So I’m sorry. You’re a better man than I thought.”

He was silent for long seconds, nearly a minute. “Thank you. I don’t think your apology is necessary, but I accept it.”

She glanced up warily; seeing no scorn or ridicule in his face, she smiled shyly and ducked her head, moving forward again.

A flower caught her eye. Grinning to see a full patch of them, she smiled apologetically at Leon. “Sorry, but I know Gaius is short on these right now.”

He nodded easily. “Take all the time you need.”

Hesitating, she shook her head. “You go ahead— I don’t want to take up any more of your time.” When he looked between her and the direction of the gate with a troubled frown, she laughed. “I come out to gather herbs and things by myself all the time, Sir Leon. You don’t need to worry about me.”

At that, he laughed softly, an edge to it that she didn’t understand. “I’m beginning to get that impression. Merlin.”

Nodding to her, he left.

She stared after him for a few moments, before shrugging off his oddness and setting to work.

After Uther released Arthur to go to Gaius, Leon volunteered to escort him; Arthur protested, but after appearing, abruptly wounded, Uther was in no mood to allow any further harm to come to his son.

Leon waited until they were well out of the king’s earshot before breaking the silence. “I hope that my reluctance to risk your health was not behind your recent decisions.”

Shooting him a wry look at the phrasing, Arthur huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Leon. It wasn’t only due to you.” Wincing as he adjusted how his arm hung in his sling, he shook his head. “But I’m convinced now that a repeat will not prove necessary. I saw no considerable difference in the attempt than I experienced last year.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sire.” After a moment, he ventured, “I take it that you considered the experiment worth the effort?”

Arthur snorted, quietly, but forcefully. “Only just.” Glancing furtively behind them, Arthur lowered his voice. “I’ve no idea where Merlin got the clothes I had to wear, but I swear they gave me fleas.”

Leon stifled a snort, only slightly surprised by the impulse to defend her. “I’m sure it’s just your imagination.”

Arthur raised a brow at him, startled evaluation in his gaze. “That’s a daring statement, for you.”

Leon accepted the gentle chide with a half bow. “And yet, I find it difficult to believe that Merlin would allow anything more than a minor inconvenience to affect you.”

Snorting, Arthur smirked. “She does tend to be a bit of a mother hen.”

“But impressively capable for her age.”

Arthur blinked, then frowned. “You know, I don’t actually know how old she is.”

“Young for a personal servant.”

“Young for anything,” Arthur rolled his eyes.

“And small.”

At that, Arthur snickered openly for a moment. “You should see her trying to carry my weapons on a hunt.”

Leon didn’t share his humor. “I’m surprised she can carry anything; she looks skin and bones.”

That visibly gave Arthur pause. “That’s just… she’s always looked like that.”

“I’m not surprised; from what she said earlier, I’d guess her village wasn’t prosperous enough to allow her to eat well.”

But Arthur shook his head, clearly troubled. “No one else in Ealdor looked that thin. I didn’t notice then, but…”

“You’ve been there?” Thinking back, he realized that was what Merlin had meant, not that her friend, Will, had come to Camelot for some reason.

Arthur nodded. “Her mother—Hunith—came to Camelot seeking help a few months ago. Their village was being besieged by bandits, and Cenred refused to aid them. Merlin, Morgana, Gwen, and I helped them defend themselves.”

Leon frowned. “Just the four of you?”

Arthur sighed, acknowledging the absurdity. “Ealdor is only a couple miles past the border, but it’s still in Cenred’s kingdom. Sending any number of men would have been an act of war. The king’s hands were tied.”

They lapsed into a solemn silence for several paces; a part of Leon thought to let the conversation die completely, but he had a nagging feeling that Merlin had left something out of her recounting. “There must not have been many bandits.”

Arthur snorted softly, cutting himself off as they passed the guards posted near the entrance to Gaius’ tower. They took the stairs slowly, as Arthur braced himself on the stone. “There were almost more bandits than villagers, actually.”

Leon didn’t bother to hide his confusion. “I don’t understand. You made it sound as though you succeeded in defending the village.”

“We did.” Arthur stopped still, not speaking for several moments. Finally, he lowered his voice further. Halfway between the base and peak of the tower as they were, Leon doubted anyone could have heard them, but didn’t argue. “This isn’t to be spoken of, Leon.”

“My lord?”

“Arthur.”

Leon blinked, taken aback by the grim note in Arthur’s voice. Still, if he was speaking to Leon as a man, rather than as a prince, the topic was clearly a difficult one. “Arthur, I give you my word I will speak of it to no one.”

After another moment, Arthur nodded. “We were losing. The villagers— they were just that. The only training they had was what little I could teach them in the days between our arrival and the battle against the bandits. Then a wind rose.”

“A wind?”

Arthur nodded, as grim as Leon had ever seen one. “One borne of magic. It blew away half the bandits and unbalanced the rest enough to give the villagers the advantage.”

Frown deepening, Leon considered the image. It seemed far more blatant than most of Merlin’s magic. “But offered no harm to you or the Lady Morgana?”

Tension in the crow’s feet he was too young to wear, Arthur shook his head. “The sorcerer was a childhood friend of Merlin’s.” Leon froze; Arthur either didn’t notice or had been expecting the reaction. “He didn’t answer when I asked who had been responsible for the spell, but then pulled me out of an arrow’s path.”

Arthur paused, frown deepening to match Leon’s. “He saved my life. He knew who I was—he hated me, and made no effort to hide it—but he took an arrow for me.”

Remembering Merlin’s words, Leon tilted his head. ‘Died saving Arthur and I’. He understood how he’d saved Arthur, now, but how had he saved Merlin? “And you’re sure he was the sorcerer?”

“He admitted it himself. Needled me on his deathbed about how he’d saved me twice, taunted me about the fact that it was too late to punish him in any way.” Despite the cold words, Arthur’s face betrayed how much the man’s words still troubled him.

But now it was beginning to make more sense. “And he was Merlin’s friend?”

Arthur nodded once, sharply. “But she’s proven her loyalty more than once since then. She even tried to tell me what Will was, but she was interrupted.”

At that, Leon raised a brow. “She tried to tell you?” Somehow, he doubted that.

But Arthur nodded again. “Asked me not to think any differently of her. And—” A sharp, wounded laugh left him. “—and then she tried to stop Will from telling me the truth. Nothing that girl does ever makes sense.”

On the contrary, things were making far more sense now; it was little wonder that Merlin had spoken so candidly to a complete—or near—stranger, when any open grief for her friend would be tantamount to a public approval of sorcery. At least, in Uther’s mind. But Leon, being absent for so long, would know nothing of the situation, and wouldn’t condemn her for mourning her friend.

A friend who’d given his life saving a man he hated, and protected Merlin with his last breath.

There was really only one point of concern left. “Why are you telling me this?”

For the first time, a flicker of youth softened Arthur’s expression, turning the severity to uncertainty. “The last few months… You know that I have always been loyal to my father and have seen that the laws of Camelot are upheld, that justice is done. But the last few months have been… troubling. I need reassurance, Leon, that… that we have, in upholding the laws of Camelot, seen justice done.”

Taking a deep breath, Leon glanced down the stairwell. “I think this is a discussion better held in private, Arthur.” Seeing how Arthur’s expression closed off, Leon forestalled the most likely assumption. “I will discuss this with you, for as long as you like. But your wound needs dressing and Gaius or the guards could hear us at any moment. If the wrong words were overheard, that would lead to more scrutiny than I think either of us would prefer to be under. Tonight, in your quarters?”

Some of the tension leaving Arthur’s jaw, he nodded. “I’ll send Merlin off after she brings my dinner— she’s always complaining about how little time off she has, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do like that episode, but I liked coming up with an explanation for how Merlin pulled a stand-in out of nowhere even more.  
> In other news, Merry Christmas!!!! (Or Happy Holidays, I guess, but I love Christmas, so Merry Christmas!!!!!!!) I was thinking originally that I would post updates for my main two stories today/tomorrow, but I've gotten way too busy with my family. It's been way too long since I came home.  
> Anyway, I hope all of you are having a wonderful Christmas/holiday season/Christmas break! I promise I am still working on all my other stuff, but also I got very sidetracked.  
> I may or may not have started writing a Buffy rewrite.  
> I am very insane.  
> But what else is new?  
> Anyway, Увидимся и с Рождеством!


	14. New Ghost in Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do a ghost, a vampire, and a werewolf have in common?  
> They all live in Sunnydale.

Danny scowled at the boxes on the floor. Her entire bedroom in Amity had ended up fitting in a box and a half, what was left of it. Her computers weren’t coming for another week; Tuck had insisted on taking advantage of the move to upgrade all her stuff, with help—and shipping costs—from Sam.

Sighing, she walked away, back into the rest of the house. Not that that was hard; it was technically only a one-bedroom, they’d just put her bed in what was supposed to be a study or something. There was a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom—singular—and Jax’s room. Everyone had been talking non-stop about how awesome a fresh start could be, and she agreed.

But she missed Sam and Tucker. She missed her room. She missed her house, even the lab. Give it a few days and she’d even start missing the Nasty Burger and the constant ghost attacks.

She wasn’t really sure how long it would take for her to miss their parents.

Jax glanced over his shoulder at her, slowing to a stop with his hand halfway through setting a mug inside the cupboard. “You alright?”

She just shrugged, moving over to a box he hadn’t gotten to yet. “Settling, I guess.”

Mouth twisting into a wry smile, he nodded and went back to putting away dishes. “It’ll take some getting used to. I keep catching myself thinking that Dad’s going to barge in here with some ecto-soaked invention.”

Danny snorted. “Or Mom’ll sweep in and ask about chess club.”

“Even though I quit that sophomore year,” he finished, smiling.

“You never even liked chess, you just did it for the nerd points.” He laughed at the accusation; her smile got a little easier to hold.

“Unlike you with space club in middle school.”

“Completely unlike.”

“Oh, completely.” They grinned at each other for a moment. Glancing down at the old waffle iron in her hands, she lifted it a bit. “Where do you want this?”

“That… down there, top shelf.” He nodded to the cupboard in question, and she knelt to put it away.

Catching sight of a familiar dent, she raised a brow at him. “Did you seriously steal Mom and Dad’s appliances?”

“I stole nothing.” Blithely, he added, “I replaced all the stuff I could salvage with new. It was that or do a deep clean of everything; you know they never take us seriously about cross-contamination.”

Humming, she moved back to the box. “Should be a good few months before the waffles attack.”

“Them or us?”

“Either, I guess.”

They worked quietly for a few minutes, only speaking when she asked for directions and he answered. But eventually, he finished with his box and crossed the room to open the one next to hers.

It wasn’t a kind question, she knew. She really shouldn’t even ask. But, quietly, she did. “Do you think they’ll miss us?”

After a moment, he sighed slowly, resting his hands on the table. “Yes. Once they realize we’re gone and we’re not coming back. I think in a year or two, they’ll miss us like crazy and they’ll call us crying.”

“In a year or two.”

He just pulled her into a hug. She returned it gently.

They both knew it was true. She was pretty sure he hadn’t trusted their parents since the time she ran away as a kid and they didn’t notice before, during, or after she came back. She knew she hadn’t really trusted them since the first couple months after the accident, when she’d been phasing and fading and generally losing control and losing her mind right in front of them and they hadn’t seen a thing. Hadn’t looked away from their miraculously-functional portal long enough to notice. And then she’d stood right in front of them and they hadn’t seen her, just seen a ghost to ‘tear apart molecule by molecule’ and/or vivisect.

Not that they ever called it that. Ghosts were ghosts. You can’t vivisect a dead thing. You can’t kill a dead thing.

She really didn’t want to ever test that.

But the portal was gone. She’d reached tentative agreements with most of the ‘Zone to mind their manners and stay away from anything Fenton™. Dorothea was protecting Wulf, who’d come and find Danny every few weeks—or days—so she could go through and check that everyone was playing nicely. Technus was tasked with proving his status as _M_ a _s_ t _e_ r _o_ f _a_ l _l_ t _e_ c _h_ n _o_ l _o_ g _y_ by blocking and sabotaging all her parents’ attempts to breach/attack/invade the ‘Zone. Even Walker had agreed to collab with sensible ghosts—so, Pandora, Frostbite, Clockwork—to make a unified code of Rules.

Granted, he’d only agreed after weeks of arguing, and only with the caveat—suggested by Clockwork, the traitor—that Danny be the de facto appeals court. Judge, jury, and— well, not executioner, but she’d hand over guilty culprits to Walker if necessary.

Stupid Clockwork. Stupid Observers. Stupid Fright Night always going on about the stupid ring and crown.

She was freaking sixteen. She was supposed to be a stupid, astro-nerd teenager.

Not the freaking heir apparent of the entire freaking Ghost Zone.

And not a half-dead, half-orphaned, half-refugee new kid in school. Goodbye, Amity Park. Goodbye, Mom and Dad.

Beware, Sunnydale.

Jax frowned at the cereal on the shelf. “WWF Superstars? People actually buy that?”

Danny didn’t respond.

He glanced over reflexively, more relieved than he wanted to let on to see that she was still there. He trusted her, but this town was weird. Weirder than Amity— or at least a different weird. It made his hair stand on end, had him constantly looking over his shoulder. Amity, as long as you stayed alert and ready to dodge, was plenty safe, especially with Danny out there keeping the dangerous ones under control.

Sunnydale, if he wasn’t losing his mind, was only safe if you were one of the things that went bump in the night.

Grabbing a half-dozen boxes of waffle mix, he pushed the cart down to the end of the aisle, checking again that Danny was behind him.

He’d have thought that knowing what she was capable of would make him less worried, but if anything, he was more paranoid since he found out. Before, he’d worried about the usual: boys, dark alleys, men in vans, bullies, her grades, assorted other typical big brother things to be worried about. And that was when he’d barely even liked her. She was his sister, he loved her, always had, always would, but there’d been more than a few years after he reached his teens—and especially after she’d hit hers—that he’d barely been able to stand her.

And then he’d found out the truth and suddenly everything made more sense. And suddenly—well, not suddenly, it had taken almost a year, but it felt sudden in retrospect—they’d started actually talking and getting to know each other, and he’d realized that his kid sister was actually a pretty cool person.

But he’d also realized that there was so much more to be worried about than the typical. She could fight off jerks and bullies and guys in dark alleys more easily than anyone on the planet, but she couldn’t fight the GIW. She could get away from men in vans and boys who wouldn’t take no for an answer, but she couldn’t just run away from the Fright Knight or Pariah Dark or who-knows-who-else attacking the city.

Well, she could, but she wouldn’t. He loved that about her, but it was freaking hard. He wasn’t sure there was anything harder than seeing his baby sister going up against a man—even if he was a ghost—thrice her size and not being able to do a single thing to help her. He’d tried to help, and that had been a freaking disaster. He’d just put her in more danger.

And then things had finally boiled over, namely the portal. And in the aftermath, with their house a crater and the cops and firefighters screaming at them and Danny struggling to get the ghosts that had still been in the city back to the ‘Zone, all their parents had thought about was their work. Their lab. Their weapons.

Not their son. Not their daughter. Not where they would all stay, when all they had left was the Fenton RV and a few boxes’ worth of sooty salvage.

So he and Danny had stayed with Sam while he got the paperwork finalized, and he’d gotten their parents to sign off on it. They hadn’t even read it.

They’d signed away custody of their daughter, and they probably didn’t even know.

But he’d gotten custody, and he’d gotten accepted to every college he’d applied to, and he’d found a high school that would take Danny despite the cliff her grades had fallen off of since the accident—probably mostly because of Mr. Lancer’s letter of recommendation—and he’d even found a job teaching summer school— definitely because of Mr. Lancer’s letter of recommendation.

And then he’d find something else after the summer, and even if he didn’t, one of the few intelligent decisions their parents had ever made was listing them as employees of Fenton Works and starting savings accounts for him and Danny while they were babies. His had more than enough in it for them both to live on for a few months if they needed to. He’d rather not burn through it, but he had time to figure something out, and he’d gotten a full ride to UC Sunnydale in the meantime. He’d figure it out.

The cart handle shoved into his hips as he collided with another cart, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Crap, sorry!”

The woman pushing the other cart, blonde hair framing too many worry lines on a face that couldn’t quite be called young anymore, scoffed gently, giving him a half-glare. “Maybe you should pay a little more attention to where you’re going.”

He grimaced, shaking his head. “I really should. I’m sorry again.”

Glare softening, she looked him and Danny over. “It’s alright. I don’t think I’ve seen you two around before. Are you new in town?”

He nodded. “Just got here today. Thought we’d at least get the essentials instead of living off of take-out for the next month.”

At that, she scoffed again, this time with a hint of actual humor, looking pointedly at the waffle mix and frozen pizza in the cart. “Essentials?”

Shoulders lifting on their own, he protested, “I can cook! We’re just still getting settled.”

“I can see that.” Worry lines easing, she held out a hand. “I’m Joyce Summers.”

He shook it carefully, glad he was tall enough to reach while leaning over the cart. “Jackson Fenton, Jax for short. This is my sister, Danielle.”

“Danny,” she corrected, nodding awkwardly at Mrs. Summers.

Mrs. Summers smiled at them both. “You look about the same age as my daught—” She cut herself off with a wince.

Jax frowned. “Are you alright?”

Smile a bit strained, she shook her head. “Fine. Are you both at Sunnydale High?”

“Danny is. I’m starting at UC Sunnydale.”

Mrs. Summers’ brows lifted; clearly, he still didn’t look his age. “And your parents?”

Now he winced, though he did his best to hide it. “Not in the picture anymore.”

Her expression softened further. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The scoff that left him was harsher than he would have expected. “Their loss, not ours.”

No one spoke for a few moments.

Mrs. Summers rallied admirably, though. “Well, I’m not sure I can stand by with this sort of thing going on,” she nodded again to the frozen pizza, “so you’d better both come by for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, that— that’s really generous, but—”

“No, it’s selfish, I hate eating alone. 1630 Revello Drive, 6:30 tonight. Don’t worry about bringing anything, just come on time.”

Jax opened his mouth to argue, but at the glare Mrs. Summers gave him, heard himself saying instead, “Alright, 6:30, 1630 Revello Drive.”

Mrs. Summers smiled broadly. “Wonderful! I’ll see you both then. Jax, Danny.” With a final smile, she walked away.

Jax waited a few more moments before breaking the silence. “I can feel you glaring at me.”

“Not glaring, just wondering if you’ve been replaced with a pod person.”

Scoffing, he gave her a half-glare; belatedly, he realized it was the same sort of look Mrs. Summers had given him. “New town, new people, and besides…” Hearing a conversation behind him, he pushed the cart forward again, more carefully, and down to the pasta aisle. More quietly, he continued, “It sounds like she doesn’t really have anyone around here, either. Or at least no one who doesn’t already know or remind her of whatever happened to her daughter.”

Danny nodded reluctantly to that. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Besides, it’s finally our chance to find out what non-ecto-contaminated home cooking tastes like!”

That got a laugh, as he’d thought it might. “Man, a whole meal where none of the utensils try to run away? Now that’ll be weird.”

1630 Revello Drive turned out to be about as stereotypical a house in the suburbs as Danny could imagine. Stifling a snicker, she snapped a quick picture with the phone Tuck had given her—it was still weird to think of it as ‘hers’—and sent off a quip in their group chat: _Daymare on Elm Street much?_

Jax was already out of the car by the time she undid her seatbelt, and raised his brows, looking around. “So this is what the nice part of town looks like.”

Closing the door, she bobbed her head, the feeling odd with her hair coiled into a heavy chignon. “Little ‘Stepford Wives’.”

“Danny, be nice.”

Moving around the car to meet him, she mimed zipping her lips and tossing away the key. He just shook his head, smiling, and they walked to the door.

It was a minute or two after Jax rang the bell before Mrs. Summers opened the door, and another several minutes of small talk before they actually sat down to eat. Danny spent most of it looking around.

The Summers’ home was nice; nothing like the Fenton Works, way smaller—and lower-budget—than the Manson Mansion, and more… home-y than the Foleys’ place. She hadn’t been to the Baxters’ in years, not since Dash decided—even in grade school—he wanted to be popular too much to keep hanging out with a nerd like her, but it seemed nicer than that, too.

But there were photos on the wall of a blonde about her age, some clearly from years earlier with a man embracing her or Mrs. Summers, others more recent with only the two women. That wasn’t new, but whatever had happened to the daughter probably was. Danny wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“So, what are you studying?”

Danny served herself as Jax answered; she could have mouthed along, but the burgers looked way too good for her to not give it her full attention.

“Psychology, with a minor in Education.”

Mrs. Summers raised her brows. “Not topics for the faint of heart.”

Danny snorted; Jax laughed. “Well, it’s not exactly a hard science.”

“Still, I never even finished my degree.”

“What was it in?”

“Art History.” She laughed. “Actually, I ended up working in the field anyway. I manage an art gallery in town; part of the job is knowing the history and provenance of the pieces.”

“That must take a lot of research.”

Sipping her wine, Mrs. Summers shook her head. “Not with most of them, the recent pieces. Even the older ones, whatever museum or gallery we procure them from usually has a record already completed.” Setting her glass down, she turned to Danny with a smile. “But I’ve barely asked you anything yet! Are you looking forward to school?”

Danny stifled a snort; Jax kicked her under the table. She gave him a dirty look, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t promised to play nice. “Kind of. I, um, didn’t really do well at Casper High, so… I guess I’m just hoping that things are a little better here.”

Eyes tight, Joyce nodded, still holding her smile. “I hope so, too. There are some good teachers here, and good kids— Buffy—” She winced again.

Clearing her throat, Danny served herself some potato salad without looking at Mrs. Summers. “So, in Amity, me and my friends usually hung out at the Nasty Burger if we were going to go someplace other than someone’s house. Anyplace like that in town?”

Not the most graceful of subject changes, but it got the tension out of Mrs. Summers’ smile, at least. “Oh, I don’t really know. I think I’ve heard— heard around— that a lot of kids hang out at the Bronze most nights.”

“The Bronze?”

Jax’s mouth quirked up. “If it’s some kind of smelting club, it’ll be right up Danny’s alley.”

She kicked him; he glared; Mrs. Summers tactfully ignored them. “It’s like a nightclub, but they don’t serve any alcohol, and they have a lot of local bands. It’s right downtown.”

At Jax’s kick, Danny nodded. “I’ll probably check it out soon.” Clearing her throat, she picked up her water. “So I’m pretty sure we drove past about ten cemeteries trying to find Revello Drive; is that normal? Amity Park’s a lot bigger, so I don’t have much of a frame of reference.”

Mrs. Summers shrugged, a faint furrow in her brows. “It doesn’t seem out of the ordinary to me. Although, we moved here from LA, so I don’t have much of a frame of reference either.”

There were another few moments of awkward quiet.

Mrs. Summers sipped her wine. “So, Jax, what do you like to read? My book club is going over _The Deep End of the Ocean_.”

He perked up, the nerd. “We read that in English class this spring!”

Danny rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Danny.”

“Dude, that’s such a Lancer pick.”

Rolling his eyes right back, he explained, “Mr. Lancer is the English teacher at Casper High, we both had classes with him.”

“And he made both classes read it.”

“You finished it?”

She shrugged. “I got bored.”

He raised a brow, but didn’t comment. “Anyway, what do you think so far? I thought it was fascinating.”

“So do I, but we’re only a few chapters in.” Smiling, Mrs. Summers tilted her head. “Actually, would you like to join? You’d be the only man, and the only one younger than twenty-five, but still.”

He pinked a bit, but nodded. “I’d like that. I’m not used to not knowing anyone in town.”

“Well, we meet at the Espresso Pump downtown, on Maple Court, on Thursdays.”

“That sounds good. What time?”

“Evenings, usually around 7.”

“That should work; I’m teaching summer school for the next couple months, but I should be off by then.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will be— they wouldn’t keep you that late! And they have sandwiches at the café, so there’ll be something to eat if you can’t make dinner.”

“Do they have Ruebens? The last place that made good Ruebens in Amity got wrecked last year.”

“I think so, yes.”

Fighting the urge to bang her head on the table, Danny cleared her throat as loudly as she could without it being too obviously fake. “Well, this is fascinating, but I think I’ll probably go find the Bronze.”

“Danny, you’re being rude.”

“No, it’s fine.” Danny wasn’t sure whether how genuinely Mrs. Summers smiled at her made it better or worse. “We must be boring you horribly. If you’re finished eating, I don’t mind if you go. Although, that is up to Jax, I suppose.”  
Both of them looked to him; he looked between them both, doing his best goldfish impression, before sighing. “No, it’s alright. Just— let me know when you’ll be back, okay?”

“Will do!” Getting up to go, she sat back down for a second to finish off the last bite of her burger. Making sure to chew and swallow first, she gave Mrs. Summers a thumbs up. “These are really good burgers, by the way.”

She just laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. Have fun! It was nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you, too!”

She didn’t bother setting foot outside the house, just faded out of visibility as soon as she was out of sight of the dining room and only opened the door enough to close it audibly, phasing through it and taking to the skies the rest of the way.

It was nice to get away from it all for a few.

Jax shook his head as Danny left, grimacing at Mrs. Summers. “I’m sorry about that; she’s been missing her friends—”

“No, it’s fine, I already said. She—” Mrs. Summers cut herself off with a wince, not for the first time. Taking another sip of wine, she was quiet for a moment before finishing her sentence. “She reminds me of my daughter.”

Jax tensed; he liked to think he was going to be a good psychologist, but you didn’t have to be an expert to tell that Mrs. Summers was having a hard time. “Is… I don’t mean to pry, but is she…?”

It took a moment for Mrs. Summers to catch his meaning, but she shook her head immediately. “Oh, no! No, Buffy and I… well, about a week ago, we had an argument, a bad one. She went out, and… just… hasn’t come back since.”

Gut twisting, Jax grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Summers took a larger sip of wine. “I appreciate it. Although, if you don’t mind my saying, you don’t seem very sympathetic.”

“No, it’s just… Danny and I are kind of on the other side of that.” She looked at him sidelong; he winced. “Our parents… I mean, they didn’t even read the custody papers before they signed them. I don’t think they’ve even noticed we moved out yet.”

Eyes softening, she set down her wine to place her hand over his. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

He held back a snort, if barely. “Mrs. Summers, you seem like a really good person, and an even better Mom. But trust me, that’s exactly why you don’t know what you’re talking about when it comes to our parents.”

She looked a bit chagrined, but still squeezed his hand. “Joyce. And I’m sure they do miss you.”

“Oh, they will. Once they actually realize that we’re gone, which could take months or longer, especially since now Danny’s teachers and the school nurse and people like that will be calling my number instead of theirs. Not that they ever actually returned those calls until I reminded them.” Catching himself, he winced and exhaled harshly. “Sorry. That came out more bitter than I meant.”

She just softened further, smile sad but genuine. “It sounds like you and Danny have had a rough time.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, you could say that. But, really, Mrs. S—” She mock-glared; he corrected himself through a smile, “Joyce, like I said, you seem like a really good Mom. I’m sure Buffy’s just clearing her head and she’ll be back any day.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” Smile turning wry, she nodded toward the door. “Every time I hear a knock, I hope it’s her.”

“Soon it will be.”

She just smiled. “There’s a pie in the fridge if you’ve finished your dinner.”

Blinking at the change of subject, he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

As she rose to fetch the dessert, he took another bite of potato salad; he’d already finished his burger, despite the conversation. Danny was right; Mrs. Sum— Joyce was a good cook.

The pie turned out to be cherry, with whipped cream, and they chatted about other books and the town as they ate. She hadn’t been in Sunnydale long enough to know any gossip, but that wasn’t the sort of thing Jax was overly interested in, either. But she had a sarcastic streak a mile wide, surprisingly, and Jax spent more of the evening laughing than he had in too long to remember.

It was nice. Talking with an adult, being treated as an adult— although he did think she was mothering him a little. Even so, it was nice. After they’d had a slice each, he offered to help clean up, and the conversation moved to the kitchen sink as he washed and she dried. Eventually, he noticed that it was almost sunset, and glanced at the clock only to realize that it was almost 8.

“Wow, it gets dark a lot earlier here than in Amity.”

Joyce glanced out the window, a furrow in her brow. “Hmms.” After a moment’s pause, she asked hesitantly, “Have— this is going to sound so odd— but have you invited anyone inside your house?”

Jax raised a brow. “No, why?”

“It… Sunnydale isn’t… it’s not always safe after dark. Not inviting people inside might seem like a silly caution, but it does help.”

“…So they can’t case a robbery?”

“Something like that.” Before he could ask, she went on, “Maybe you should call Danny.”

Biting his tongue against a snort, he shook his head. “No, Danny’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know what’s out there.”

“No, but I know my sister. Trust me, she’s kind of a trouble magnet. I’ve seen her beat up guys three times her size. She can handle herself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the crappy summary, but also, Happy Birthday to me! In Hobbit tradition, you all get the present, in this case another story snippet.  
> But yeah, Danny Phantom has basically always lived in the back of my head, but now Buffy's joining it, and then I stumbled over Damian/Marinette and holy crap I'm in love. So I may or may not also be writing a fem!Danny/Damian story, mostly because I haven't seen MLB in forever and I really don't have anything unique to add to the pile as far as that goes, but I haven't seen any Dani/Damian stories, so yeah. That's happening.  
> Also, I may or may not post the first chapter of a Buffy rewrite later today, so if you're a competent!Xander fan, keep an eye out.   
> Увидимся!


	15. The Nicest Ghosts in Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Ghost

Danny bobbed her head absently to the music, looking around the room. Mrs. Summers was right; this was definitely the big spot for teens and such. She didn’t think there was anyone in the building over twenty except for the employees. And maybe the band.

It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it had about ten thousand miles on the Nasty Burger.

Definitely better music.

The ‘bartender’ set down her root beer, and she moved off into the crowd, walking on tiptoes to try and find an empty seat, or at least an empty stretch of wall.

Root beer sloshed over her hand as someone bumped into her. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

Switching hands, she wiped her soda-drenched hand on her jeans. “It’s fine, could be worse. Could’ve gotten it on my shirt.”

The girl who’d bumped her, a waif-y redhead, nodded frenetically. “Yeah, that would be the worst. Or not the worst. But really bad. And cold. And carbonated.”

A little bemused by the babbling, Danny just laughed. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“Oh! Sorry. I’m Willow!” The girl stuck out her hand quickly; Danny was starting to get the impression she was someone who operated almost exclusively in enthusiasm.

Wiping her hand off again in case she missed some stickiness, Danny shook Willow’s. “Danny.”

“Danny! I like that.” Willow’s grin vanished quickly, her eyes dropping to their hands. “Oh, you’re cold. Oh!” She snatched her hand back, eyes wide and scared. “You’re really cold. Um, I should go.”

Danny fought the urge to shift her weight; she hadn’t had anything resembling a normal temperature since her ice powers had really come in. “Some people run hot, some people run cold. You got a problem with Michiganders?”

“Oh, Michigan, right. And you’re holding soda. And… you’re really pale.” Willow was openly backing away now, still looking like a deer in the headlights. “Yeah, I should go. Um.”

After a beat, she turned on her heel and fled.

Danny just blinked for a moment. Hopefully not everyone in town was that skittish.

A few minutes later, sitting near the dance floor—such as it was—she sent a few dozen pictures off to Tucker and Sam.

The phone rang almost immediately. She answered with a grin. “Man, you guys have absolutely nothing to do, do you?”

“Well, there’s that, and there’s the two time zones between us,” Sam pointed dryly out.

“Man, who cares about that— is that seriously a place for teenagers?”

Tuck sounded like he was on the edge of his seat already, and possibly on some ticket site. Danny laughed. “Right? It looks so skeezy, but no, apparently this is _the_ place for our age range around here. There’s barely anyone over—” Scanning the crowd, a man dancing with a girl a little older than Danny caught her eye. “…twenty…”

What was wrong with him? He looked… She wasn’t sure, but there was something off, and she couldn’t place it.

“You ok?”

Maybe it was his clothes? No, he looked fine. A little overdressed, but he looked better than the guy in the Hawaiian shirt talking to Willow in the corner.

“Danny?”

Maybe it was the way he was moving. She wasn’t sure if he was overly stiff or overly smooth, but there was definitely something off about it.

“Danny!”

“What?” Looking away from the couple, she shook her head. “Sorry, there’s a… really weird guy. Super spaced.”

“You or him?”

“Ha ha ha. What’s the rumor mill like? Anyone saying I fled the country?”

“Nah, but Mike and the other geeks think you got recruited to NASA super early.”

“Paulina and the other cows think you got knocked up.”

“Oh, gross!” Laughing, she pointedly ignored Willow and Hawaiian shirt pointing and whispering. “What about Dash and Kwan and the other jocks? My money’s on ‘kicked out of school for being lame’.”

Tucker snorted. “Haven’t heard yet, but that’s a pretty safe bet.”

“Safe bet? Try guarantee.”

Danny hummed idly, eying the weird guy as he and the girl danced toward a side door. “Something like that. And… How’s work on the Fenton Works going?”

They both hesitated. Quietly, Sam sighed. “Non-stop. Anytime anyone tries bringing up you or Jax, they just say something about being sure that you guys are having fun at the park, or the beach, or say that you ran out for a few and you’ll be back in a minute. No one’s really sure if they’re in denial or if they seriously haven’t noticed.”

“I… I might have hacked their systems. They haven’t done any searches or anything. The last thing that went through anything connected to FentonNet—that wasn’t something to do with rebuilding the ‘Works—was when Jax faxed the signed custody papers. I’m sorry, Danny.”

“We both are.”

She ignored the pressure behind her eyes. She hadn’t cried since before the accident. She wasn’t going to start now. “Yeah. I know.” Movement caught her eye— the weird guy closing the side door behind him. “I gotta go.”

“Danny, we can talk about something else— there’s a new Nightmerica movie being made, a reboot—”

“No, it’s not— there’s something sketchy going down.”

“Ghosty?”

“Don’t think so, but I’ll keep you posted. Later.”

Their goodbyes got cut off as she hung up, stuffing the phone in her pocket as she moved to follow the weirdo.

Willow gasped and grabbed Xander’s arm just above the cast. “Xander! She’s going! She is! She’s a— a— a—”

“A vamp, yeah, you said.” Gently, he pried her hand off, biting back a wince.

“We— We have to do something!”

Oz frowned at them from the stage, furrowing his brows at Xander; Xander shook his head back. This wasn’t Oz’s fight. One vamp in an alley, he and Wills could probably handle.

Probably.

“You got stakes? I got stakes.”

“Oh, yeah, um,” fumbling, she pulled one out of a cargo pocket on her pants. “Ready!”

Grimacing, Xander pushed her hand down again. “Subtlety, Wills. No brandishing.”

She winced, cradling the stake between both hands. “Right. Subtle. I can do that.”

Pulling out his own stake, Xander flipped it to hold it with the butt in his palm and the point along his forearm. “Good. Let’s go.”

Danny didn’t bother opening the door, just phased through, only to stop dead in her tracks a couple steps later.

The couple was making out against the wall, and that was really not something she wanted to see. But the girl definitely looked underage, and the guy definitely had not, even if his face was buried in her neck now and she couldn’t see it. Should she do something? She should probably do something. He looked like a creep. Yeah, she should do something.

Stiffening, the guy’s head snapped around, toward her, and now she froze.

That… that was not a human face.

He snarled, baring fangs in a blood-soaked mouth.

Fangs.

Blood.

Vamp— No, that wasn’t—

Was it?

No—

The door burst open behind her; the v— the guy snarled again, louder.

“Oh! That— Oh, he— Oh, no!”

Well, she definitely recognized the exclamation marks.

“Great, two on two. That’s just wonderful.”

She didn’t know that voice.

The guy sneered, looking at the two newcomers as they shuffled to the side. “Wannabe slayers.” He scoffed. “You’re no threat.”

“Hey! We are too a threat. We’re very threat-y!”

“We’re super threat-y.”

The guy swung his glare back to Danny, baring his fangs again. “This is my kill. Get your own!”

“See? I told you! I told you she’s a vamp!”

“I know, Will.”

Danny just blinked at the entire scene. Inhaling sharply, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m a little stuck. Maybe you can help.”

Pivoting on her heel, she turned to Willow and— apparently, Hawaiian shirt guy. She took a deep breath.

“SINCE WHEN ARE FRICKING VAMPIRES REAL?”

Both shushed her; even the vamp— the guy looked startled.

“Don’t shush me! Vampires are— what? Since— When did this happen?!”

The guy sneered. “New turn.”

“Shut up! You don’t get to talk— wait—” Belatedly connecting the dots, she looked down at Willow and Hawaiian shirt guy’s hands, at the stakes she’d only half noticed at the edge of her vision. “You’re vampire hunters?”

They both looked down at the stakes as though they’d forgotten they were holding them. “Um, this— this isn’t—”

At the same moment, Hawaiian shirt guy bobbed his head. “I mean, not professionally, but—”

“Xander!”

“What? She already saw a vamp, it’s a little late to play it off!”

Danny squinted incredulously at them. “Would you can the Laurel and Hardy routine and stake this creep already? I have questions—a billion—and ‘in the face of imminent demise’ doesn’t seem like the right time to ask!”

The vamp dropped his victim, turning to face them fully with a snarl while the girl stumbled away, whimpering.

Willow squeaked and dropped her stake.

Hawaiian shirt guy—Xander, apparently—yelped, but moved in front of Willow. “You, ah, you— you stay back!”

Danny squinted harder at them. “You’re really new at this, aren’t you.”

The vamp lunged forward; Danny reflexively yanked both the other teens back, just as he charged through the space where they’d been. “Hey!”

“Shut up!”

Ducking a swipe, she jumped for the stake Willow had dropped, flying a bit to get back on her feet in enough time to yank the vamp backwards before he could attack the other two.

He whirled to face her, eyes wide. “Slayer!”

“Never heard of ‘er.” She slammed the stake into his chest before he could react, startling when he poofed into dust.

She blinked.

Dust tickled her throat. She coughed.

“You… You’re…”

Looking up at Willow and Xander, she narrowed her eyes at them. “Okay. Question time. First off, what the crap was that?!” Willow opened her mouth; Danny cut her off. “Vampire, thought I was a ‘slayer’, got that part.”

“Right, and you’ve never heard of slayers? Or vamps?”

She gave Xander a flat look. “Do you really think I would have had a minor mental breakdown in an alleyway if I had?”

He considered that, then bobbed his head. “Fair.”

Willow tugged on his sleeve, still eying Danny warily. “Xander, are we really sure she’s not a vampire?”

He looked skeptically at Danny. “Well, if she is, she’s playing nice for now. One way to make sure.”

“Really? What?”

“Time to call Giles.”

Danny raised a brow at him. “And ‘Giles’ would be?”

“Uh-uh, no answers until you’re confirmed non-vamp. Come on, on to Giles’.”

Danny opened her mouth to question that, but just closed it again. “Whatever. Just— I gotta call my brother first.”

Both teens startled. “Your brother?”

“He isn’t— um, you know, evil, is he?”

“Wills, do you really think she’d tell us if he was?”

Rolling her eyes, Danny pulled out her phone, only for the ringing never to start, Jax’s voice reeling off his voicemail message. “Crap, his phone’s dead.” She grimaced. “And I don’t know her number. Figures.”

“‘Her’? ‘Her’ who?”

“Mrs. Summers, she had us over for dinner.”

That startled them more than hearing about Jax. “Really? Did she invite you in?”

Danny gave him an odd look. “Weird phrasing, dude.”

Willow shook her head. “No, he means the exact words. Did she invite you inside the house?”

Both seemed to be serious about it for whatever reason—oh, right, _vampires_ —and Danny thought back to when Mrs. Summers had opened the door. “No, she invited us over, and then when we got there she just said hi and stepped aside so we could go in.”

“Okay. Okay, that’s good. That— that sounds good-like. Good-adjacent?”

“I think you probably could have just left it at good. Either one of you know Mrs. Summers’ number off the top of your head?”

Both nodded, Willow more enthusiastically, unsurprisingly. She reeled it off quickly enough for it to clearly be rote.

While Danny waited for someone to pick up, Xander chimed in, “We should all just meet there.”

Willow squeaked. “Xander! But— Mrs. Summers—”

“She already knows everything.”

“Yeah, but after Buffy…”

Danny raised a brow, but the ringing stopped before she could ask. “Summers residence, Joyce speaking.”

“Hey, Mrs. Summers, it’s Danny.”

“Oh, hello, Danny! Did you want to talk to Jax?”

“Is he still there?” Even as she said it, she could hear him on the other end, asking Mrs. Summers what was happening. Smiling, Danny shook her head. “Never mind, I heard him. I’m actually on my way back to your house— can you ask him to wait for me there?”

“Of course! And I forgot to tell you before you left— I made a cherry pie for dessert. There’s still plenty left if you’d like a slice before you and Jax go home.”

“That sounds amazing. I’ll definitely have some.”

After quick goodbyes on both sides, Danny hung up and handed the phone to Xander. “Sounds like you need to call Giles whatshisface and tell him to meet us at Mrs. Summers’ place.” She froze. “Crap, that rhymed. Purple.” She glanced around her, squinting at any shadows that might be the Ghost Writer.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh… I’m not touching that.” Snatching the phone out of her hand, Xander quick-stepped backward, out of Danny’s reach.

Realizing how it would look to other people, Danny grimaced at Willow as Xander dialed. “Long story. Cursed poem.”

“Oh.” Willow considered it, then nodded. “That makes sense.”

Danny raised a brow. “Seriously? Weird town you got here.”

“Weird town where you came from, sounds like.”

Danny didn’t jump at the unexpected voice, but it was a close thing. The speaker, a short redhead, walked over to Willow with his hands in his pockets, eying Danny idly.

Willow perked up, smiling at him. “Hey, Oz. This is Danny. She might be a vamp. Or a slayer. Or something else, we’re not sure.”  
“Huh.” Oz looked Danny over the same way Xander had, then nodded at her. “Welcome to Sunnydale.”

It took a moment for her to recognize him. “Hey, you’re the guitarist?”

He nodded easily. Willow grinned.

“You guys are really good.”

Willow beamed. “I think so, too!”

Oz shrugged. “We try.”

Hanging up, Xander tossed the phone back to Danny; she scowled at him. “Do you mind? This was a gift!”

He just gave her a snide glare and addressed the others. “Giles’ll meet us at Mrs. Summers’. Oz, you can drive?”

“Van at the ready.”

“Oh! But— Devon?”

“Devon hit it off with one of the girls inside. I don’t think he’ll be needing the van tonight.”

Xander and Oz grinned at each other; Danny rolled her eyes.

Boys.

Willow gave her a commiserating half-grimace; apparently, complimenting Oz—and his band—was enough to break through her suspicion.

Jax and Joyce were in the middle of a friendly debate over the merits of Dr. Spock when the bell rang. “Oh, that must be Danny.”

Jax stood with her, but she waved him down again. “No, you get a slice ready for her, she said she’d like one.”

Conceding with a smile, he pulled the pie back out of the fridge as she got the door. Knowing Danny, she wouldn’t want a big slice. But whipped cream— that, she’d want plenty of.

Footsteps came into earshot, but it was a man’s voice he heard with Joyce’s, not Danny’s. Frowning, he looked to the doorway just as Joyce led an older man in. Both looked worried.

“Oh, Jax, this is Rupert Giles, he works at the high school. Rupert, this is Jackson Fenton, he and his sister just moved here.”

He nodded at the man. “What class do you teach?”

“Oh, no, I’m, ah.” Mr. Giles adjusted his glasses. “Well, I’m the librarian.”

Jax blinked at him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard someone so quintessentially British before. “Do you want pie? There’s still a lot left.”

“Ah. No, thank you.”

Well, Jax could now officially say that he’d actually heard someone say ‘no, thanks’ and sound like he actually meant the ‘thanks’. “Sorry, do you need me to go? Is this something you need to talk about with Joyce?”

Joyce smiled at her name—it had taken the entire evening, but he’d broken the habit of saying ‘Mrs. Summers’—but shook her head. “No, it sounds like you might need to be here for this conversation.”

“Not that it’ll be right away. There are another few parties involved that have yet to arrive.”

Jax took that in with a nod, stomach starting to sink. “Alright. Actually, maybe you could help me out— I’m teaching summer school English, but I haven’t had time to actually go over to the school yet, or get a local map or anything. Is it near here?”

Mr. Giles’ eyes lit up, and between the three of them, they kept up a fairly steady stream of conversation until the bell rang again.

Joyce glanced toward the door. “That’s probably them. Rupert, take Jax into the living room? I don’t think everyone will fit in here.”

“Ah, right.” He nodded for Jax to follow him through a different door than Joyce left through; Jax grabbed Danny’s plate first. “Just, ah, just out of curiosity, do you have any idea what this is about?”

“No, but I get the feeling everyone else does.”

Mr. Giles just grimaced at that.

The living room was as comfortable as the rest of the house, all plush cushions and warm lights. A small stampede sounded before Jax could even think of sitting, but he did set down the plate.

Danny walked in, preceded by Joyce, flanked by a tall, broad brunet and a short, skinny redheaded guy, and followed by a short, skinny redheaded girl.

He raised a brow at her. “You know what’s going on?”

She shrugged. “Long story short, vampires are real and they think I’m one.”

Joyce and Mr. Giles both stiffened, looking alarmed.

Danny didn’t seem to notice, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, so much suspicion just because I’m pale and cold.”

The redheaded girl piped up nervously, “Also, you don’t have a pulse.”

“I have a pulse! It’s just… really weak.” Danny grimaced at Jax. “That doesn’t really sound better, does it?”

He was still a little stuck. “Vampires… Wait, does that mean Vlad…?”

Danny threw up her arms, almost hitting the brunet. “Right?! I mean, he’s a ghost vamp, but still—”

“No— No, wait,” Joyce spread her hands, shaking her head. “Rupert?”

Mr. Giles narrowed his eyes at Danny; Jax shifted his weight, not liking the hostility in that stare. “Joyce, did you invite her in?”

“No, I made sure not to.”

“Wait, that’s what you meant? With the warnings?” Danny tilted her head; he shook his head. “Pretty sure we’re both about to get the full spiel.”

“That remains to be seen.” Jax raised his brows; all the hesitance had fled from the Brit’s voice, replaced by an edge harder than Vlad’s at his best. “Will you allow yourself to be tested?”

Danny raised a sardonic brow. “I don’t know, pop quizzes? Not my strong suit. Is it multiple choice?”

The brunet shook his head. “We tried to take her pulse in the van, but we couldn’t find it. She’s freaking cold, freaking pale, and definitely too fast to be a normie.”

“Neither cold temperatures nor complexion are reliable methods of identifying a vampire. Joyce, do you have a portable mirror?”

She nodded, motioning for the brunet to follow her. He did so reluctantly.

Danny grimaced at Jax, widening her eyes in a silent ‘help me’. It wasn’t like they were wrong about her not being completely human, even if they were wrong about what else she was. “Is the sunlight thing just a myth, or does that work? Because we got here in broad daylight, Joyce can confirm that.”

Mr. Giles didn’t look impressed. “No, it isn’t a myth, but there are, unfortunately, ways around that. Does anyone have a cross on them?”

Fumbling slightly, the redheaded girl pulled one out of a pocket and held it up.

“Good. Hand it to her, please.”

Danny didn’t look happy with being talked around, but took the cross without argument. When nothing happened, she started flipping it from hand to hand. “Not really impressed with your testing standards so far. Does any of this stuff actually do anything? Well, stakes do, I guess.”

“Stakes?”

The girl piped up, eyes tracking the cross as though she couldn’t look away. “Oh! She dusted a vamp outside the Bronze.”

Jax’s brows shot up; the redheaded guy looked vaguely impressed. “I’m sorry, what?”

Danny nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, that was weird. Did not expect the ‘poof’.”

“Poof.”

She half-grimaced at him. “Stake goes in, vamp goes poof, dust-cloud says hi. I think I breathed some in. Not pleasant.”

Joyce and the brunet carried in a large mirror, thought it didn’t look very heavy; the brunet was only using one hand. Belatedly, Jax realized his other arm was in a cast.

They set the mirror behind the small cluster, tilting it from side to side; Jax watched the indistinct shapes of three people’s backs slide back and forth, and glanced to Mr. Giles.

He seemed more inclined to believe that than anything else, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Well, that’s still not conclusive evidence of humanity, but it does prove you cannot be a vampire.”

“Big shock, Sherlock.”

“Danny, don’t be rude.”

She tossed a half-hearted glare at him, before getting distracted. “Is that pie under that whipped cream?”

Remembering the plate, Jax grinned. “All yours.”

Danny visibly stifled a fist pump, darting over to grab the plate.

Glancing at the other teenagers in the room, Jax added, “There’s almost half a pie left in the kitchen. Joyce?”

She blinked at him, then nodded at the others, a bit distractedly.

The brunet ran out with a grin; the girl followed after a moment’s hesitation. The guy took a casual seat on the couch opposite Jax, Joyce sitting more stiffly at the other end. Danny hesitated, but took the armchair when Jax waved her toward it.

Jax retreated to the side of the fireplace mostly behind Danny; Mr. Giles paced a small circle in the middle of the room.

Coming back, the redhead girl darted to the couch to sit on the guy’s lap, which he accepted with too much affection—if subtle—for them to be anything but a couple. The brunet groaned, but just sat on the floor beside Joyce, balancing his plate on his knee and steadying it with his injured hand.

Mr. Giles glanced at them after a moment. “Ah. Now that you’re back— What exactly happened at the Bronze?”

“Um, well, I bumped into Danny, and she was cold, and pale, and I thought maybe she was a vamp, and I warned Xander, and then she went outside, and we followed her, and then there was another vamp, and Danny yelled about vampires, and the vamp tried to get us, and Danny dusted him, and Oz came out, and now we’re here. Oh! And the victim got away. I think she’s okay.”

“Ah. Good. Xander?”

Jax blinked at the random word, but the brunet answered. “Like Wills said, but also the vamp thought Danny-girl was a new turn after his kill, until she staked him, when he thought she was a slayer.”

“Yeah, about that?” Danny spread her hands, half-empty plate carefully propped on the armrest. “What was with all the ‘slay’ words? ‘Slay’, ‘slayer’, ‘slayers’, ‘slaying’— it felt like a third-grade vocab test.”

“You don’t— Hmm.” Mr. Giles thought for a moment. “What would either of you say if I told you that demons are real and walk the earth?”

“You’ve met Paulina?”

“Or Tetslaff?” Danny snorted at that, shooting him a grin.

Mr. Giles cleared his throat, pulling their attention back to him. “No, real, actual demons. From Hell.”

Jax stared. “Actual Hell.”

“Actual Hell.” He winced. “Ah— By that, I mean, a Hell dimension. There are many Hell dimensions, most of which are inhabited by various demon species.”

“Wait.” Setting the empty plate completely on the ground, Danny leaned forward in her seat, staring intently at Giles. “You’re talking about cross-dimensional travel? Different planes of existence, each with its own periodic table, flora, fauna, degrees of sentience, habitability, sustainability, and culture? So when you say ‘demon’, you mean ‘extra-dimensional being with non-human qualities and/or abilities’?”

He blinked at her. “Well. Yes.”

She looked pointedly at Jax. “Guess Amity wasn’t the weirdest town in the world.”

He shook his head, frowning. “This place feels different, though.”

She shrugged, expression going distant for a moment. “More… raw, I guess, but not that different.”

Joyce shook her head, exhaling sharply. “Wait. You mean to tell me that the two of you already have experience with this?”  
Jax bobbed his head to the side, still frowning. “Kind of, not really.” Looking back to Danny, he pointed out, “We never saw vampires. You knew everything that happened in Amity.”

She shrugged again, shaking her head. “Like you said, it does feel a little different. Maybe the ‘Zone doesn’t play well with other dimensions, kept the scary ones away.”

“The ‘Zone’s plenty scary.”

“Not compared to this place.”

That, he couldn’t argue and didn’t want to.

Xander scoffed dramatically. “Um, something to share with the class?”

Glancing one last time at Jax, Danny leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs; Jax doubted she realized, but it was a pretty strongly authoritative pose. “Our parents are ghost hunters. Sort of. They call them ghosts, but actually they’re what you’d call demons. I think extra-dimensional is more accurate for all of the above, but ‘ghost’ is a decent shorthand, and habit after so long, anyway. Couple years ago, an artificial portal opened up, started letting all kinds of ghosts into town. Me and my friends kept them under control, until the portal blew up a couple months ago.”

No one spoke.

The redheaded guy was the only one who didn’t look stunned, just mildly impressed.

Mr. Giles blinked at her. “Right. Well. And these ‘ghosts’, they were dangerous?”

“Yeah, but mostly in a property-damage kinda way. The only ones actually out for blood either only went after other ghosts or weren’t popular among other ghosts. They keep their own in check, for the most part.”

Jax couldn’t help a slight, disagreeing noise; he winced as everyone looked to him. “She’s not wrong, but… I mean, come on, Danny, some of them could’ve done permanent damage if you hadn’t stopped them. Spectra?”

She winced. “Good point.” At the bewildered looks the others threw at both of them, Danny explained, “Spectra was a… misery-vampire. Posed as the school counselor for a while, made everyone miserable. She was actually going to kill Jax to really depress people, but that didn’t work out.”

Jax rolled his eyes. “Translation: Danny stopped her and doesn’t want to brag.”

“Jax!”

Mockingly, he returned, “Danny!”

She stuck her tongue out at him; he returned that, too.

“Focus, children, if you wouldn’t mind.” Mr. Giles frowned at both of them as they looked to him, chagrined. “How old are you?”

Jax blinked. “Odd question.”

“Should we expect anything else?”

“Yes, yes, just answer it, please.” Taking off his glasses, Mr. Giles rubbed his brow tiredly.

Sighing, Jax crossed his arms. “Eighteen.”

Snorting, Danny muttered, “Barely.”

He kicked her chair without looking. Joyce sent him a chiding look; he grimaced apologetically.

Sighing much more dramatically than Jax, Danny tipped her head back, keeping her hands on the armrests. “I’ll be sixteen at the end of the summer.”

Xander perked up. “Hey, we’re a whole year older than you!”

“Not exactly impressive, dude, I’m still in your grade.”

The girl, letting her boyfriend take a bite of her pie, frowned. “Yeah, but— that means Oz is a whole two years older than you. So there!”

“What, he got held back a grade? Super impressive.”

Already half-watching the ginger duo, Jax caught the slight wince that crossed the guy’s face. Interesting.

The girl opened her mouth to keep arguing, but Mr. Giles cut her off. “That does leave the possibility that you are, in fact, a slayer. Have you noticed any sudden increases in strength, speed, reflexes, et cetera, in the last few months? Especially the last few weeks.”

Jax didn’t have to see her face to know Danny was raising a brow at the Brit. “Months and weeks? Big no.” Before he could ask anything further, she pointed dryly out, “You still haven’t actually explained the whole ‘slayer’ thing. I’m guessing it’s a Thing, capital T.”

“Ah. Yes. Well. I suppose there’s only one place to start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you can't tell, this series apparently is named after Hairspray songs.  
> I honestly don't know why, other than 'New Girl in Town' was the first pun that came to mind when I was posting the last chapter.  
> Also, Buffy-style banter is fun to write, can you tell?  
> Anyway, like I said yesterday, DP and Buffy (and Batfam) have taken over my brain, so I hope you like those fandoms!  
> Увидимся!


	16. Like a Hand Grenade Thrown in a Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title from Rise by Skillet

Xander stared at the zookeeper for a long moment, feeling the magic in the room. Something was— no, _he_ was different. He wasn’t— It was gone, the hunger, the laughter, it was gone and now this man, this clown, he had it.

Xander could feel it in the air, the other members of his pack stilling as the zookeeper ripped away their own hunger.

But that wasn’t his pack. Not anymore.

Willow was his pack, and the clown had a knife to her throat.

The zookeeper dropped the knife, his hands curving into claws around her jaws as a primal growl built in his throat, and Xander knew that sound.

That was the snarl of an alpha, and that was _his_ voice that clown had stolen. _His_ voice, _his_ packmate—

Whether the hunger was gone or not, the rage didn’t feel any different. “Willow!”

Charging the zookeeper, he stayed low, taking him out at the legs. This clown had no _right_ to Xander’s—

The zookeeper shoved Xander away just as that magic surged again; Xander fell, off-balance, and the zookeeper faltered just as Buffy charged him.

At the sound of a scream, Xander’s eyes snapped to the cage, just as the zookeeper was brought down by the pack inside. He fought a smile.

Schooling his expression, he crossed to Willow, untying her hands as Buffy turned away, revolted, from the carnage Xander could hear and smell.

The door opened with a creak, Giles stumbling out. “Ah… did I miss anything?”

The pack—former pack—slunk out while Buffy caught Giles up; Xander eyed them, but didn’t say anything, just pulled Willow into a hug as he tried to understand.

The hunger was back, but it was duller. Not so consuming, not so impossible to ignore. The laughter was back, but not so cruel. Willow stunk of fear, and it made him nauseous.

He wasn’t like he had been. In either direction.

“…and Xander was the one to knock him off of Willow. Got punched in the face, though.”

Xander looked over, about to correct her, but bit his tongue at the mixed wariness and relief in both Buffy and Giles’ faces. They’d feared him. He remembered that. He remembered scaring Buffy. He remembered assaulting Buffy.

He remembered being a monster. He didn’t want to.

Giles cleared his throat, trying and failing to hide a hint of nerves. “Right. Xander, how are you feeling?”

Willow tensed in his arms. He remembered lying to her earlier.

He’d have to do better now.

“Um. Sore? Weirded out? More than a little confused why one second I’m pulling Lance away from the jerk squad and the next, there’s an Insane Clown Posse reject holding Willow hostage.”

The relief in the air was palpable. Almost as much as the scent of the zookeeper’s blood.

Xander swallowed down bile.

Buffy offered him a strained smile. “Um, maybe you should rest up. Maybe you’ll remember tomorrow.”

Willow’s arms tightened around him; he squeezed her gently back. He’d made her cry. Maybe he couldn’t let on he remembered, but he could still make it up to her. Her and Buffy.

Giles dropped him off first, the same spot he’d always met Willow at as kids. She’d never been to his house yet, and he didn’t plan to ever tell any of them where it was.

He fought a snarl; he still had to live in that place for close to two years. Shaking off the anger, he set off at an easy lope; he had a lot of energy to burn off before he could handle that place, and a lot of thinking to do before he could handle school.

He’d been as bad as the ‘jerk squad’— worse, since he’d been leading them.

He’d eaten a live pig. At the time, the taste had been better than anything he’d ever imagined, but now the memory made him gag. At least he wouldn’t become an unbitten vampire.

He’d hit Willow. Only with a dodgeball, but even so, he wanted to go back in time and rip his hyena-self’s head off. Because it wasn’t just the dodgeball, it was the mocking, the insults, every cruel thing he’d been able to think of doing to her. He’d wanted to hurt her. For what?

He scoffed, slowing to a walk as his legs burned. He knew for what.

Hyenas were matriarchal. If anyone was the leader of the pack, Buffy was, but, well. His feelings for Buffy hadn’t translated into anything resembling contempt. But Willow, even being smaller and weaker than him, even being more awkward than him, even being transparently, nauseatingly crushing on him, was still higher-ranked than him. And that had rankled.

So he’d taunted her and tormented her and did his best to put her in her place. In a true—or at least, actual hyena—pack, the challenge would have pushed her to slam him back down; her lack of retaliation had only convinced him—hyena-him—further that she didn’t deserve to be above him. Despite the fact that she’d already been in her proper place. He’d been the one rising above his station.

Now he wasn’t sure exactly where his station was. Below Buffy and Willow. But Giles… Giles was older, more educated, but Xander was stronger, more capable. And it wasn’t as though Xander was stupid. The hyena might have sapped his math skills away, but he’d had them to begin with, and more than he let on.

Jesse never had liked being the stupid one. And Jesse had been as mean when he was angry as any hyena. And Xander had been the outcast, the weak link, the scavenger hunting for scraps of friendship wherever he could find them, and so he’d played dumb and played mediator between Willow and Jesse. He’d translated Jesse-speak into Willow-talk and vice versa, and as they’d gotten older, they’d grown up, but he’d never grown out of being a scavenger. Never had any real pack but them.

And then he’d seen Jesse turn into a monster and he’d seen Jesse die and he’d been the one to dust him.

Xander had to stop moving entirely, closing his eyes as he tried to get his breathing under control.

It was easier to just not think about Jesse. He hadn’t—at least, in public—since that day.

He was a scavenger. No one kept sickly, starving scavengers around. He had to be upbeat, had to be the jokester, had to be the friend Willow needed, the sidekick Buffy tolerated. Maybe more—

No. He’d done enough.

Gritting his teeth, he strode the last, small distance to his house, opening the door carefully. Inside was dark and quiet, and he held his breath as he picked his way to his room; apparently he had a little night-vision now. That’d come in handy.

The living room stunk of beer, his parents’ room of anger and sex and bitterness, the bathroom of narcotics and vomit.

His room smelled like him. Like the old him. He hadn’t spent any time in it since the entire hyena fiasco began; he’d only come by to pick up clothes and spent his nights in the park. It was trickier to get away with now that he was fully grown, but opposable thumbs made it a lot easier to climb the old, broad oak in the middle of the park than it might have been if he’d had the paws his instincts had told him he did. No one had spotted him sleeping on the wide branches.

He was tempted to spend another night out there. But that wouldn’t give him as much privacy to think.

Sinking onto his bed, he ran a hand through his hair, hunching over his knees.

He’d attacked Buffy. He’d assaulted Buffy. He’d tried to rape Buffy.

None of that was anything he could ask her forgiveness for.

None of that was anything he could forgive himself for.

That she could even stand to be in the same room as him was more than he deserved.

No more. No more crush, no more trying to impress her, no more hoping she’d wake up one day and realize he was the man of her dreams. If she let him continue to be her friend, he’d be lucky, and he’d be glad.

But he couldn’t toy with Willow just because he’d hurt her, too. He’d used her crush against her, and that wasn’t something he could forgive himself for, either. But he didn’t feel the same way. He never had, and he doubted he ever would. He wouldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t.

Pretending to be what he wasn’t any longer was another question. If he was going to keep up the charade and deny any memory of what had happened, he’d have to act like normal, like he wasn’t different now.

Striped hyenas were scavengers. Brown hyenas were scavengers.

Spotted hyenas, they were predators. Willing to scavenge if necessary, but still hunters.

He didn’t want to be a scavenger any longer. He’d pretend to be, as much as was necessary, to keep up the charade. He’d still be Willow and Buffy’s friend, their packmate and Giles’, but he wouldn’t be an outcast again. He wouldn’t be a weak link.

That was more difficult when the alpha was the Slayer, but still. He could learn to fight.

Slowly.

The next few months were going to be miserable. They were going to be on the lookout for any sign that he wasn’t himself, even if they believed that he didn’t remember anything; he’d have to wait until they shifted focus before he could let himself start shedding the scraps.

But he’d keep his pack, and he’d take care of his friends. That would be worth it.

Itching to move, he stood and began to pace, grimacing at the lingering fatigue from his brief run. The restlessness wasn’t going to fade, he knew that. And being as weak as he was when he knew how dangerous the town was was just plain stupid.

Weak links didn’t last long in a strong pack.

Running was a good place to start. If he ran before and after school, and maybe ran again before he came home at the end of the night, maybe he’d be able to hold it together during the day. If he could burn off enough energy, pretending to still be plain Xander Harris would be ten times easier. Probably.

But for now, he had school in the morning, and a ‘normal’ act to perfect.

Sleep would help.

Xander kept one ear on Buffy and Willow’s conversation as they walked across the campus; the amount of noise around was chaos, but the smells were worse. It didn’t help that he’d barely slept; hyenas were nocturnal, and what little sleep he’d gotten between tossing and turning had been filled with dreams of grassy plains and commandeered dens.

“…if they don’t ask what happened to the last one.”

Xander bit back a grimace at the thought of just what his—former—packmates had done. “Ok, but I had nothing to do with that, right?”

“Right,” Willow confirmed. “You only ate the pig.”

Stumbling on the stairs at the memory, he almost didn’t remember to look horrified. “I ate a pig? Was he cooked and called ‘bacon’, or…” Covering his face for a moment, he couldn’t quite stop all of the laugh that bubbled up. “Oh, my go… I ate a pig?! I mean, the whole trichinosis issue aside, yuck!”

“Well, it wasn’t really you.” Buffy’s reassurance was shallow, but genuine.

A little relieved at that, he shook his head, feigning confusion. “I remember going on the field trip, and then going into the hyena house, and the next thing, some guy’s holding Willow, and he’s got a knife.”

Too late, he remember saying all that the night before, but both girls seemed to just chalk it up to the memory loss, Willow telling him seriously, “You saved my life.”

He couldn’t help a tiny smile at that. “Hey. Nobody messes with my Willow.”

The hug might have been a little far, considering her crush, but he couldn’t help himself. It was what he’d have done before, anyway.

As he drew back, ignoring the not-quite-just-friendly way Willow was smiling at him, Buffy nodded. “This is definitely the superior Xander. Accept no substitutes.”

That stung. To cover his wince as much as anything else, he frowned, hesitating. “I didn’t do anything else, did I? Around you guys? Anything embarrassing?” Or criminal.

He looked between them both, but Willow just smiled at Buffy as though attempted assault was as harmless as an accidental pantsing, and Buffy didn’t look any more bothered, shaking her head idly. “Nah.”

Willow confirmed, “Not at all.”

As much as their friendship meant to him, he was still tempted to yell at them not to forgive people so easily.

Buffy nodded at Willow. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“See you at lunch!”

“Cool.” Belatedly, Xander tossed out, “Uh, hey, going vegetarian. Huh?”

They just smiled at his thumbs-up, walking away into the building.

Holding his grin—pretending to be normal wouldn’t do any good if he only kept it up around them—he turned to walk the other way, not surprised to see Giles there. There was only one man on campus that wore tweed, and that, Xander could smell from a mile away.

“I’ve been reading up on my, ah, animal possession, and I cannot find anything anywhere about…” Giles glanced pointedly at Xander. “…memory loss afterwards.”

A chill raced down his spine, a nervous laugh bubbling up; he gestured back the way the girls had gone. “Did you tell them that?”

Leaning in, Giles promised, “Your secret dies with me.”

Well, that wasn’t ideal, but at least Giles would cover for him if he let something slip. Shoulders dropping, Xander only replied, “Shoot me, stuff me, mount me.”

Giles patted him on the shoulder as he walked past, hopefully agreeing to Xander’s terms.

He meant it. If he hurt the girls again, that was exactly what he wanted Giles to do to him.

Linking his hands behind his head, as he walked, he exhaled slowly. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. Easier in some ways.

Dropping his hands, he cracked his neck. He needed a better way to take the edge off.

Seeing a couple girls eye him hungrily, he stifled a groan. He needed a better act.

Well, he always had been the class clown. Time to ramp it up to ‘hyperactive goofball’.

Xander bit back a growl, eying the puppet on the table. Being a ‘hyperactive goofball’ had covered up his slips, but almost too well. He was starting to regret starting the charade in the first place.

Granted, it made his life easier that Buffy and Willow took his protectiveness as evidence that he was still crushing on Buffy, but still. A vampire slayer getting involved—falling in love, even—with a vampire was a horrible idea on its own, no jealousy required. He hated it. Part of him still wanted to stake Angel and have done with it.

But then he’d started considering the crap he’d done before the zookeeper had taken the magic back, and then he’d started wondering where the line between ‘justice’ and ‘murder’ was.

The pack had murdered Flutie. Buffy had killed—justly, if maybe not wisely—the zookeeper.

And he wasn’t sure which one killing Angel would be.

Killing Moloch, on the other hand, had been completely justified, both because he was a demon and because he’d tried to poach Willow, then kill her. It had rankled, to have Buffy teasing him about being jealous of a new guy in Willow’s life, but not as much as it had to hold back when they’d finally gone after Moloch themselves.

Falling from the fence on purpose and faking a limp? Self-preservation.

Getting punched in the face by a robot demon and keeping himself from actually retaliating? Equal parts galling and maddening.

Cripes, he was hanging around Giles too much. Especially while they’d tried to figure out what to do for—and about—the talent show.

Thinking of the new principal, Xander allowed himself a low, feral laugh for the first time in weeks. Now there was an omega. Any pack worth its salt would have driven him out, and probably already had. But now he was an omega with power, and the overinflated ego that came with it.

Forcing them into the talent show was respectably cruel, though. He knew what he was doing. He’d have made a good hyena. Probably a better hyena than a human.

But the play, _that_ was going to kill Xander, and soon. He was running for twenty minutes straight straight before and after school—now, after rehearsal—and almost thirty before bed. It kept him tired enough not to lose his cool, sore enough to stay in his right mind, and out of the house almost the entire time his parents were home, but.

But.

The only thing to do while he ran was think. Mostly about crap he didn’t need to be dwelling on more than he already was, but the talent show was good for one thing.

He could have recited that stupid Oedipus speech in his sleep at this point.

If nothing else, he’d be able to deliver a half-decent performance for the talent show, but then again, that might make Buffy and Willow suspicious. Not to mention, if Snyder didn’t get the humiliation he wanted, he’d probably make all three of them do something even worse.

Xander sighed, letting his head hang over the back of the chair. ‘Stupid Xander’ act it was.

But that was after they dealt with this stupid doll. Giles was sure that Morgan was the one behind whatever was going on, but Xander wasn’t convinced. There was something supremely wiggy about that doll, and not all of it was just him empathizing with Buffy’s dummy-phobia.

The air around that thing felt… he wasn’t sure. Almost oily. It wasn’t anything he’d noticed before everything with the hyenas, but it wasn’t like anything he’d noticed since then. So, nothing demonic. Nothing vampiric.

It had kept him from fooling around like he might have otherwise. The smart—or at least, the ‘stupid Xander’ thing to do—would have been to be playing with the thing when the others came in, being comically bad at ventriloquism, dropping _Shining_ references, maybe a few from _Child’s Play_.

He had still ribbed Buffy about her phobia, and cracked jokes non-stop until Willow and Giles disappeared into the depths of research hell, but Sid had laid firmly on the table all the while.

He wasn’t about to underestimate that thing until they carved it down into pencil shavings.

So, he kept one hand on it as he read, and he carried it with him when he needed to get more books.

Sitting down again, the thing’s eyes happened to be on his face, and he glared. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re probably the thing killing people.”

Turning back to the book he’d just retrieved, he snorted. “Morgan’s a beta, anyway. He wouldn’t have the spine to carve someone’s heart out. Maybe if you possessed him or something, but even then, he’d probably still chicken out as soon as he came back to himself.” He tossed a snide look at the puppet, its eyes still creepily staring. “Possession doesn’t exactly come with memory wipes included. That’s the deluxe package— gotta pay the primo price.”

He shook his head, looking back to the book. “Be just my luck if you did come to life and take my liver or something.” He grinned toothily. “Hence the personal guard. You’re probably just an alien or a dryad or something, but like I said, that’s not how my luck works. Might be Buffy’s luck, though. I only started getting into so much trouble when she came around. But I guess that’s the curse of the Slayer. Monster killer, monster magnet.”

Motion snapped his eyes back to the puppet; its brows had shot up, and its mouth moved as he watched. “Wait, she’s the Slayer?”

Xander blinked at it for a moment. “Pretty sure that’s what I just said. One girl in all the world, she who kicks vampire butt, pretty, preppy, and soon-to-be pissed that her ventriloquist dummy nightmares are coming true.”

The puppet’s brows lowered, its eyes narrowing into a glare. “How do I know you’re not covering for her? You think Morgan’s such a beta, maybe you’re the tough guy who carved out the heart on Buffy’s orders.”

Xander snorted, jaw clenching for a heartbeat at the insult to his alpha. He caught himself a moment later. “Wait, you think Buffy’s the killer?”

“It was the only reason I could think of she’d be so strong. ‘Course, I hadn’t considered she could be the Slayer.”

Xander raised a brow. “You saw a superhumanly-strong teenage girl clearly involved with the supernatural, and your first thought wasn’t ‘Slayer’?”

“Kid, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

Apparently so. Keeping a tight grip on the puppet’s arm, he looked to the door Giles and Willow had disappeared though. “Hey, guys! Any books in there about wise-cracking, hopefully-non-evil dummies?”

“‘Hopefully’?”

Xander glared coldly at it. “You haven’t proved anything besides being able to talk.”

It raised a brow back at him as footsteps neared. “You haven’t proved anything either, kid. Thin ice.”

The smile Xander gave it was more hyena-like than human. “Wood might float, but you’ll still freeze if I take you down with me.”

It just grimaced at that, and Giles and Willow came in at a run. “Xander! What’s going on?”

He scowled at the puppet, keeping the expression soft enough to be… well, Xander-ish. “Like to share with the class, bud?”

For a moment, he thought it would just try and make him look crazy.

Then Buffy came in as fast as the other two had. “Demon’s got a brain! It got Morgan!”

The cusses that left the puppet were… inventive, to say the least; all the humans in the room glanced at each other with their brows at their hairlines. “Crap, kid, she actually is the Slayer?”

Xander shrugged, though he wasn’t sure who at. “Told you.”

“Son of a…”

Later—much later—Xander let go of the rope, and watched the demon’s head plop heavily to the ground. Sid climbed atop the body, knife in hand. “And now for the big finish.”

Buffy made as though to stop him, voice and scent concerned. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not enough. He’ll be back,” Sid told her heavily. “You have to get the heart. Then all this’ll be over.”

Remembering the conversation he’d overheard, Xander inhaled quietly, releasing the breath slowly. Despite the rocky start, he’d actually ended up liking the geezer. Puppet, yes, grizzled, surprisingly, but Sid was a good man, as far as Xander could tell, and one who’d been through more than any human ought to.

He’d miss him.

But everything had its time. Sid’s had come.

Buffy held out a hand. “Let me.”

Xander might have pulled her back himself, but Sid shook his head first. “I got it. Thanks.” He pulled the knife back, but paused, looking toward Xander. “You got cojones, kid. You’re gonna need ‘em in this town.”

Conscious of the others’ eyes on him, Xander didn’t grin like he wanted, just smirked gently. “You’re a piece of work, Sid.”

Sid just laughed shortly, gruffly, and faced forward again. One stab and it was done.

Synder’s torture took much longer, but finally, they got away. Waving goodbye to Buffy—Willow had fled for home without even taking off the toga—Xander waited until she was out of sight to double back. Giles was still busy with getting the talent show cleaned up, too busy to notice one lifeless puppet disappearing behind his back.

Xander buried him under the oak tree in the park, on the side facing a pond. He didn’t have any words to say, no rituals to do. Hyenas didn’t do anything like that, and on the human side— well, Jesse’s parents hadn’t been able to afford a funeral. He’d never been close enough with anyone else who’d died to even think about going to one. He couldn’t put up a gravestone or a plaque, not without inviting too many questions.

But he could offer an old, scarred man a moment of silence, and a peaceful place to rest.

He spent the rest of the night sleeping on the branch above the grave. It was the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks.

A few weeks later, he was seriously considering building a treehouse and just living in that oak. Between his parents and lingering guilt over what he’d done while he was possessed—the first time, anyway—he was starting to wish his nightmares were more like Wendell’s. The thought of one of his dreams actually happening…

Seeing one of the greaser-wannabes getting mom-smothered in front of his friends, he bit back a howling laugh. Though it was a good reminder: not every nightmare was deep and dark and traumatic.

He still got nightmares about being naked in school, and that had never even sort of happened.

Willow closed her locker and turned to go; he fell in step, picking up the conversation where they’d left off. “It must be a coincidence. Wendell finds a spider’s nest, we all wig because he dreamt about spiders. So, it may not be connected.”

It was definitely connected.

Following her into the classroom, he added, “If there is a connection, it doesn’t sound like anything…” The room burst into shocked laughter, and he trailed off. “What?”

Turning around, Willow startled, just as he realized that he was a little colder than he should have been. “Xander! What happened to your…”

Looking down at himself, he fought the urge to snarl at the idiots pointing and laughing. Weakness was bad. Weakness got you eaten or driven out. Weakness would leave him an outcast again.

So he just propped his hands on his hips, idly noting that he was at least still wearing boxers. But then, he always was in his nightmares. “Huh.”

Glancing up, he offered a bright smile to the room, mostly at the teacher. “This is weird. I’m going to go find some clothes, if that’s alright.”

She nodded jerkily; Willow was staring at him, as horrified as he felt.

Keeping his own nod tightly controlled, he turned around and walked out, head high.

There was more laughing in the hallway, more jeers, more whispering, more of everything that got under his skin the most, but then, this was a living nightmare, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t be complete without a healthy dose of public humiliation.

Oh, Synder was going to have a field day, the sadist.

Willow caught up at a run, already stuttering. “Xan— your— you— clothes— how—”

“Don’t know, not important.” Keeping his head up was getting harder by the minute. He’d already given up on keeping his fists from clenching. Or his jaw. His gym clothes were in his locker, and since the nightmare wouldn’t be complete otherwise, every hallway was full of students and none of the lockers were his.

He nearly ran straight into Cordelia. She looked him over, eyes wide, but didn’t laugh. “Um, what?”

He just smiled coldly at her, especially as between one blink and the next, her own nightmare began. “Might want to find a mirror, Cordykins. Hair’s looking a little, uh, steel wool-ish.”

Her hands flew to her head, the genuine horror in her eyes almost making him sympathize. Catching sight of his locker, he sidestepped Cordelia and strode to it as quickly as he could without looking anything more agitated than ‘casual’.

Heart pounding, it was a moment before he could get his hands to stop trembling enough to put in his combination. Willow caught up, stutter gone but cheeks pink. “That was— Weird’s not a strong enough word. We have to go to Giles.”

He didn’t bother going to the locker room, just pulled on his shorts and sneakers then and there. “Yeah, I’d say so, Wills.”

Fishing out his shirt, he nodded at her to follow him and strode off, pulling the shirt on as he pushed through the library doors. “Red alert. Where’s Buffy?”

“She— She just stepped out. Her father came by, he needed to talk to her.” About to go back into his office, Giles looked at Xander again and paused. “Where are your other clothes?”

He grinned, a bit manically. “Don’t I wish I had the answer to that question.”

“Xander kind of found himself in front of our class… not wearing much of anything.”

“Except my underwear,” he finished brightly.

“Yeah,” Willow laughed, “It was really—” At his look, she changed tack, smile falling away. “Bad. It was a bad thing.”

He almost laughed again, but that would definitely be too maniacal not to be suspicious. He settled for tersely offended. “‘Bad thing’? I was naked— ‘Bad thing’ doesn’t cover it!”

Distantly, Willow nodded. “Everyone staring… I would hate to have everyone paying attention to me like that.” She frowned, looking quizzically up at him. “You didn’t seem like you minded, though. You were all smiley.”

That, he couldn’t help but laugh at, but he managed to pull it back before it turned from sarcastic to cruel. “Will, I was naked, in class, in school, in front of everyone— the only way to make even more sure that I never live it down would have been to scream and run. This way, maybe in ten years, I can laugh it off and pretend it wasn’t literally a nightmare.”

Willow gasped. “Your nightmare! No waking up, but— Like with Wendell!”

Nodding, he added for Giles’ benefit, “Kid’s got issues, and a recurring nightmare that the zombie corpses of his dead pet spiders come back to get him back for letting them die. He lived that in front of everyone, I was nude in front of everyone—”

“I dreamt that I was lost in the stacks,” Giles interrupted, walking toward them, “and I— I couldn’t rea— of course!”

When Giles didn’t go on, just looked like he wanted to kill something, Xander summed up, “Waking nightmares, school-wide.”

“Coming true.”

Willow broke in, “So why is this happening?”

Giles looked sharply at them, eyes wide. “Billy.”

Xander bobbed his head, smothering the urge to snap at the older man. “Well, that explanation was shorter than usual. Billy’s behind this, good to know. Who’s Billy?”

“A boy in the local hospital. He was beaten. He’s in a coma. Somehow,” Giles stilled, “I think he’s crossed over from the nightmare world he’s trapped in.”

“And he brought the nightmare world with him.” Xander nodded. That just figured. “Thanks a bunch, Billy.”

Willow sounded—and smelled—somewhere between bewildered and afraid. “How could he do that?”

Giles raised his brows at her. “Things like that are easier when you’re on a Hellmouth.”

“Well, um,” Xander pulled pointedly on his gym shirt. “We have to stop it.”

“And soon,” Giles agreed. “Or else everyone in Sunnydale’s going to be facing their own worst nightmares.”

Xander picked up the first chocolate bar gleefully.

The second, with a laugh.

The third, he started to reach for before hesitating.

Glancing warily around, he followed the trail of candy, but didn’t pick up any further pieces. Broken walls and plastic sheets, open lockers and random ladders, everything looked like something out of _Silent Hill_.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when the clown showed up. Actual clown, with a butcher knife.

And just as terrifying as at Xander’s sixth birthday party.

But Xander wasn’t the same scared kid he was. And that clown wasn’t as big as he remembered.

Ducking the first swing, Xander quickstepped back just far enough to give him room to clock him in the face. Despite the big rubber nose, the feeling of bone breaking against his knuckles was real enough, the pain in his hand realer still.

Shaking his hand out, he stared down at the unconscious clown, lip curling. “You were pathetic, you know that? Terrible balloon animals.” He laughed, the sound more shrill than it had been in months. “Who can’t make a giraffe?”

Standing there, he couldn’t quite stop laughing for a long moment, and even after he stopped, he just grinned.

It was just a clown. Not a monster, not a demon. A stupid childhood fear.

And now it wasn’t even that.

Taking a deep, satisfied breath, he turned to go.

And froze at the sight of Buffy several paces away, her skirt ripped and her face tearstained.

She shook her head, glaring at him with more hate than he’d seen her aim at anyone but the worst vamps. “I thought you were my friend.”

He… no, he’d… “Buff, I am y—”

“No!” The sound was more sob than shout, and he flinched, backing away. “I trusted you, and you— you—”

“It— the—”

“What, the ‘hyena’?” Visibly shaking, she sneered at him, shaking her head slowly back and forth. “It wasn’t a hyena that raped me. If you’d been a hyena, you’d have crawled to me on your hands and knees and begged!”

His breath left him in a rush. He hadn’t thought about that before, but she was right. She— He—

“You weren’t a hyena when you did this. You were human.” Shaking her head, she spat on the ground. “You’re worse than a demon.” The words knocked the breath from him, the hatred in her eyes only strengthening. “At least demons don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

At that, he stopped.

The clown was still lying on the ground beside him. He’d just done a walk of shame through half the school.

This wasn’t real.

Clenching his jaw, he straightened up to his full height. He didn’t do that often, usually not wanting to draw attention to himself. But he had earlier, and he did now. “I didn’t do this.”

Buffy spat at him, stumbling with the force of it. “You did, you liar!”

He shook his head firmly, pushing aside the guilt. “No. I tried, and that was probably the worst thing I have ever or will ever do. But I didn’t do this to you. You stopped me. And now I’m stopping myself.”

Buf— Nightmare-Buffy laughed, a horrible, high, drunk thing that sounded as though she were an inch from losing her mind entirely. “You? You, stop yourself? Since when? Since when are you anything but a pathetic, friendless loser, with pathetic, alcoholic parents, and you’ll grow up to be just like them: barely more than an animal!”

She lunged at him at the last word; he dodged and backed away, keeping as much distance between them as he could, and holding onto his control with all the willpower he could muster. “Since I got an atomic bomb of a wake-up call. I’m not going to be like I was, and I’m never going to be like them. I’m never going to be an animal.”

She just scoffed, sneering at him. “Yeah? Then what will you be?”

Looking back at her, looking at what he might have—almost—done, he promised quietly, “Someone I can be proud of.”

At that, she stopped still, staring at him like she couldn’t understand a word he’d said.

Given that she was almost definitely just some kind of dream-phantom that only existed to hurt him, she probably couldn’t.

He just turned on his heel and left.

Willow and Giles were a few turns of the corner away, Willow wearing a kimono for some reason.

Giles saw him first. “Xander!”

Willow perked up, seeing him, still looking rattled by whatever she’d gone through. “Are you okay? Did you find Buffy? What did you see? I was on a stage and I had to sing—”

Giles interrupted her, just as a vampire-Jesse stepped up behind Willow. “Are you alright?”

Pulling Willow out of the way, Xander punched Jesse in the face; he didn’t get up again. Looking back to Giles, Xander bobbed his head. “Yeah, pretty alright.”

Willow gaped. “That— That’s—”

“Not real, Wills.” Looking her in the eye, he chucked her under the chin. “None of this is. Giles, what’s that line? ‘Fear is the mind killer’?”

Expression perturbed, he nodded. “Ah, yes, that— that sounds right. I think we’d better go.”

He walked away; Xander pulled Willow along as she stuttered. “But— Still! That— That was Jesse— Are you sure you’re alright? How are you feeling?”

Dryly, Xander raised a brow. “Honestly? Pretty fearless.”

Cordelia slammed the door to her room, fighting a scream.

No. No! The world being crazy and her hair being horrible and people actually seeing her like— like a— like a grandma nerd chess freak— that was all bad enough!

Xander Harris could

not

be

a

dish!

He just couldn’t! Xander freaking Harris being hot— that broke some law of the universe! Like gravity, or karma, or centipoodle force or something!

But he’d been right there, shirtless, and tall, and muscly, and hot—

No! No, no, no, no. No. That— That was not possible, it was not happening, it was not.

Ever!

Collapsing onto her bed, she pulled a pillow over her face to scream into, only for her closed eyes to abruptly be full of Xander’s chest.

The next day, she smiled sweetly at anyone who commented on how hoarse she sounded and told them she’d been on the phone with a model friend in France all night.

And she avoided Xander loser Harris and his stupid muscles all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so first off, this is very much inspired by Influenced Out of Normality, but I'm not sure how to link to that when it's only one chapter in a piece that's inspired, not an entire fic. Point being, eventually, when I have enough of this finished, I will move it to its own separate piece, but until then, just go read ION, because it's amazing and I love it.  
> This, semi-sadly, is not an MCU crossover, but it is a semi-series rewrite. It won't be a full rewrite, at least yet, since the rest of season one and a big chunk of season two are going to happen basically like they did in canon. I am thinking of combining it with the DP crossover I posted yesterday, though. So feel free to see this as a prequel to that!  
> It isn't yet, officially, since I haven't gotten to that point of the rewrite, which is also a big part of why I don't have any plans to really continue the DP/Buffy fic right now; I tend to make things up as I go along, which I think helps things stay organic, but it also makes it really hard to predict where things will end up.  
> Also, sorry if this seems a little aimless; this is one of the ones that I ended up divvying up chapters more based on word count than anything else, and also like I said, I was trying to stick fairly close to canon.  
> That will change.  
> Anyway, hope you liked it!   
> Увидимся!


	17. Helping Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot that Danny doesn't know about Mr. Lancer.   
> There's even more than he doesn't know about her.

It started simply. Lancer had forgotten a few essays he’d yet to grade, and walked into his classroom only to stop short when he saw the other figure in the dark room.

Specifically, the ghost girl, standing frozen with a first aid kit open on the desk beside her and an open wound in her side glowing as bright a green as her wide eyes.

It wasn’t until the blood—or was it rather ectoplasm?—began to drip onto the floor that Lancer broke from his stupor. “You need stitches.”

Glancing down, she hissed quietly, but just adjusted the gauze in her hand to better cover the wound. “I’m fine, Mr. L— Mister. I heal fast, I just— The bandage’ll be enough.”

Setting down his briefcase, Lancer leveled a stern glare at the ghost. “Rapid healing is no excuse for sloppy first aid, Miss. Incorrectly applying that bandage will slow your recovery. I doubt you wish to be hindered for any longer than necessary.”

She’d looked at him askance, but accepted his help. Fortunately, as it turned out, as the wound stretched around to her back and she likely would not have been able to reach it. The next day, she’d still worn the bandages. The next time she’d appeared, it had been gone, with no evidence that it had ever been there.

Lancer had been relieved to see that she’d recovered, and thought that nothing more would come of it.

Then, a few weeks later, he’d answered a knock on the door as he prepared to leave the school, and ‘Inviso-Billie’ had told him timidly that she thought her ribs needed to be wrapped and did he know the right way to do that?

He had, fortunately, and had wrapped them quickly and made a mental note to restock the first aid kit.

He kept it in his classroom—ensured one was in every classroom—for the same reason that he had helped her in the first. The ghosts that attacked their town too often targeted the school, and he would neither stand idly by while his students needed treatment, nor ignore their staunchest protector while she stood before him, bleeding.

It wasn’t until the fifth occasion on which he helped her that she asked.

“How do you know how to do this? Doesn’t really seem like the kind of thing most English teachers know.”

He’d glanced sidelong at her—he didn’t think he’d ever mentioned which subject he taught—but returned his attention to the weeping gash on her leg; it had come disturbingly close to her femoral artery, if ghosts had arteries. “I don’t suppose you recall the events of September, 2001?”

Even without looking directly at her, her frown had been easily seen. “No, but— You mean 9/11?”

“Just so.” He kept his voice and motions deliberately composed as he continued pulling the needle through her cold skin. “Many men and women joined the armed services after the attacks. Many became law enforcement officers or firemen. I became a paramedic, for a time.”

“Oh.” Her tone caught him off-guard; it was reminiscent of the occasions on which his students realized—sometimes for the first time—that he did, in fact, have a life beyond theirs. “So why are you a teacher now?”

Stilling, he took a careful, slow breath before continuing either his explanation or her treatment. “Because to see that pain and grief every day takes a strength I simply don’t have.”

It was more of an answer than he might have given a student, but this was a—ghost, woman, girl, something—that was no less a first responder than he had been. More akin to law enforcement than to medicine, but nevertheless.

She didn’t speak for the rest of that encounter, apart from quietly thanking him after he finished with the bandage.

But following that conversation, she lost some of her hesitance in asking him for help.

A month later, she asked directly, “Why are you so okay with helping me? I’m— Well, I mean, people are alright with me now, but the first few times— that was right after everything with the mayor. I think you’re probably the only person not to scream or run or attack me before everything with Pariah Dark.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the grisly burn he was treating on her shoulder. “I have to admit, Miss Phantom, I’d expected you to ask before now.” She grimaced slightly, then strongly as he moved her arm a bit to better tend the wound. “After the debacle with the mayor, I must say, I did think as poorly of you as the majority of the city. However, it was clear fairly quickly that despite our disdain, you persisted in defending us. Upon the invasion of the ghost-hunters,” she snickered at his dry tone, “it became obvious that for all the… misadventures, shall we say, that you have brought to our city, you remain more proficient than any human, no matter their funding or expertise.”

She tilted her head, looking at him sidelong. “So… better the devil you know?”

His mouth twisted self-deprecatingly. “At the time, it was more akin to ‘beggars can’t be choosers’. I also wasn’t inclined to allow anyone, human or otherwise, to bleed out in my classroom.”

She snorted softly. “Fair.” After he tied off the bandage, she hesitated rather than immediately taking her leave as was becoming usual. “Mr. Lancer?”

Slowing as he redistributed the contents of the kit, he glanced at her.

“Thank you. For everything.”

He only blinked at her for a moment. There were times that she seemed as hardened as a veteran. Then there were times that she seemed horrible young, this being the latest. Conscience twinging, he took a steadying breath. “Miss Phantom, if you want to thank me, you can tell me the truth just now.” Her eyes widened, expression turning almost guilty, but he didn’t give her a change to flee. “Have there been times since I began patching you up that you didn’t come to me because I wasn’t here at the school?”

That visibly took her aback; idly, he wondered what she’d expected him to ask, but only waited for her answer. Eventually, she ducked her head, nodding.

Sighing—that was as he’d expected—he took a sticky note from his desk and jotted down— “My address.”

For several seconds, she only gaped at him.

Restraining a huff, he placed it deliberately in her hand. “I trust you won’t make my home your base of operations, but if you are seriously injured, I expect you to get treatment regardless of the hour. As the hospital is obviously out of the question, that leaves only one course of action.”

Still wide-eyed, she pulled her hand back and read the note. Swallowing, she shook her head. “This is your house, though. This— It’s not like this is still your day job. I mean, don’t you get enough annoying teenagers during class?”

He leveled a stern look at her— it worked on her just as well as it did on his students. “I can assure you, Miss Phantom, whatever sleep I lose treating you, it will be less than if I were left to wonder if you were attempting to stitch up your own lacerations.”

Still somewhat chastened, she’d mumbled an agreement and fled, note still in hand.

It hadn’t been until several hours later that all of her words had registered.

‘Teenager’.

He’d thought—as most of the city did, so far as he knew—that Phantom was as anomalous as the other ghosts, that she was a ‘ghost’ in name only, that her humanoid appearance was, as the Fentons loudly proclaimed, merely a distraction from her complete lack of any human heritage, understanding, or morality.

But that phrasing, combined with the—admittedly shallow—understanding of her that he’d formed over the last months, was enough to drive home the realization.

She was human, or had been. She had been no older than his students when she’d died. From her humor and references, she had likely died within the last several years. At most, he would estimate her age—from birth to now—between twenty and twenty-five.

Less optimistically, between sixteen and twenty. And from her face, he guessed that at her death, sixteen would be generous.

He was aiding and abetting a child soldier.

Most of the scotch in his cabinet went toward drowning that particular revelation.

The next day, hungover and crabby, he called in sick. That evening, he answered a knock at the door to see nothing.

“Mr. Lancer?”

It took longer than he liked to admit for him to understand why there was a disembodied voice on his front step. “Come in.”

He closed the door without waiting for her to move past him, unsurprised when he turned around to see her already in his entryway. “Are you alright?”

He blinked at her. “Completely. Are you?”

Frowning, he looked her over, relieved but confused to see no obvious injuries. She shook her head impatiently. “Yeah, there weren’t any attacks or anything, but you called in sick.”

And that… He wasn’t proud of how much it blindsided him to realize that she’d been concerned. That she cared for his wellbeing no less when he wasn’t facing imminent death by ecto-ray. “…I wasn’t in a suitable frame of mind to teach. Coming in anyway would have only hurt my students’ learning.”

Genuine relief softened her bearing; he hadn’t realized until then how tense she’d been. “Good. I thought maybe—”

Abruptly, she tensed again, grimacing. Lancer frowned. “Is there something I should know?”

She shifted her weight, avoiding his eyes. “It— I don’t want you to get hurt because you’re helping me.”

Frown deepening, he simply waited.

Still visibly uncomfortable, she crossed her arms, wincing faintly as it pulled at her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come here. School’s not that bad, there are ghost attacks there all the time, no one’ll think anything’s up if I’m there, but if someone notices that I’m here, they’ll figure out that you’re helping me. You could get hurt. Really hurt.”

He raised a brow. “I may not frequent ‘superhero’ films, but I believe I’m familiar with the logic.”

She scowled suspiciously up at him. “Why does it sound like you’re going to argue about this?”

“Because the logic is flawed.”

Her scowl turned to a glare darker than he’d seen her level at anyone but an enemy. “Don’t even try that— this is your life! If you get killed or hurt because of me, I’m the one who’ll have to live with that— don’t—”

“And if you bleed out because you refuse to accept what help is offered you, I’ll be living with that.”

That silenced her for a moment, brow furrowing. “You shouldn’t worry that much about me. I’ll be fine.”

Raising his brow a bit higher, he deadpanned, “I think I’ve stitched you up one too many times to believe you’ll never need help again.”

“I’m not saying I’d never ask for help again, just not here.”

Voice hard, he straightened a fraction. “My presence at the school beyond normal hours would be more easily noticed and more suspicious than your presence here; most of the city is aware of your patrolling. And delaying your treatment for a full day just so that I could treat you at school without suspicion could very well leave you unable to protect the city to the best of your ability, which, I believe, is still your priority.”

Her scowl deepened. “It never hurt before.”

He’d already guessed at how she’d dealt with the untimely injuries she received in the last several months, but the confirmation still left a bad taste in his mouth. “Whether or not that’s true, it’s no guarantee that it’ll hold true in future.” She opened her mouth to argue; he cut her off. “What do you think will happen if the next gash to your leg actually does hit your femoral? Or if the next broken rib punctures your lung while you refuse to ask for help?”

She closed her mouth, color draining from her face. Looking away, she hugged herself a little more tightly, despite the pain he saw in her expression. “I do what I do because I don’t want anyone— _anyone_ —to get hurt. I can’t put you in danger.”  
There was a weight to her words that he didn’t understand, but he didn’t really need to. “I’ve noticed students such as Miss Manson and Mister Foley helping you now and again.”

Her scowl deepened. “They won’t stay away. I’ve tried to talk them into backing off, trust me.”

“And yet you cooperate when they offer their help.”

She shrugged, holding back a wince.

He added, more pointedly, “You trust them to know their own minds.”

At that, she flinched; he didn’t understand that, either, but he didn’t have a chance to ask before she snapped, “I can keep an eye on them while they’re there.”

Deliberately keeping himself relaxed, he returned, “But you don’t surveil them around the clock. I wouldn’t be in any more danger than they are, and likely less, as they’ve been seen helping you publicly.”

“I’m not human— ghosts leave traces—”

“Which would be similarly left if you had simply altered your patrolling route to encompass the area.”

She opened her mouth to argue further, but closed it again after a moment, scowling up at him. He returned the stare, belatedly realizing that it had become a staring contest of sorts; he’d noticed before that she didn’t seem to breathe unless she were about to speak, but only now noticed that neither did she blink. He did, but stood his ground nevertheless.

It was several minutes before she deflated, exhaling quietly before shaking her head. “I’m only coming when I really need help.”

He was too relieved at the concession to push overmuch. “There’s a covered porch in the back; no one will see you come and go from there.”

Nodding, she abruptly moved past. “Goodnight, Mr. Lancer.”

Turning reflexively to get the door for her, he was left with his hand lamely outstretched as she phased out of sight and, presumably, through the door.

He lowered his hand slowly. He had more scotch in his cabinet, but that night, he restricted himself to tea. Decaf.

He had class in the morning.

It started slowly. At the beginning of the school year, he gave Danielle Fenton, Tucker Foley, and Samantha Manson detention, for disrupting class.

Miss Manson had loudly protested the exclusion of women such as Marie Curie from the current lesson, dragging both the other two in as backup. Apparently, the fact that the lesson was on medieval science hadn’t been sufficient cause. And apparently, she didn’t care much for reading the syllabus he’d handed out, which had clearly listed a biography of Marie, Irène, and Ève Curie in the required reading for a lesson several weeks down the road.

Mister Foley had loudly protested his involvement in the ruckus, getting into a shouting match with Miss Manson.

Miss Fenton had quailed at the attention and shrunk down in her seat, but assisted her friend nevertheless.

In detention, the three of them had bickered over their homework, but completed it before their release. Lancer had made a mental note to separate Miss Manson and Mister Foley whenever possible, and written off Miss Fenton as a quiet, but good student— her completed homework, unlike theirs, had been competently done, if lacking some of the finer points.

For several months, the pattern had continued: Miss Manson led the other two into trouble, Mister Foley doubled the chaos either by aiding and abetting or by protest, and Miss Fenton trailed timidly behind them, always the first to suggest a less problematic diversion, usually with Mister Foley’s quick agreement.

Then in February, for a time, there was a moment of quiet. Miss Manson focused on her assigned schoolwork—with the occasional ‘extra-credit’ project that was only tangentially related to the topic at hand—Mister Foley focused on Miss Fenton, and Miss Fenton began to hand in half-completed assignments, or work that clearly had not held her full attention.

After the ghost attacks began in earnest, a couple weeks later, her work worsened further, but so did everyone else’s.

After the city began to settle into an uneasy resignation to the state of things, the other students returned to their previous levels of effort and attention.

Miss Fenton’s worsened further.

He had blamed Miss Manson, initially. She was far from subtle, and he shuddered to think what she was like outside the negligible limits of a school environment. More than once, he complained about the trio with his coworkers, commiserating over the impossibility of certain students.

It had been the newest addition to the staff, Miss Kaucie, who’d laid their complaints to rest. She’d worked as a lunchlady at the elementary school for several years, and transferred to Casper High just that summer after her nephew left for college. And she told them, quietly, of how often Miss Fenton had come to school at the beginning of the year barely more than skin and bones. How this year had been no different. How excitedly the younger Miss Fenton had told her and everyone else who would stand still to listen how she was going to be an astronaut like Sally Ride, and how she was going to name stars for her parents and how proud they’d be of her.

How over the years, Miss Fenton’s energy had waned, and the other students had mocked her obsession. With the exceptions of her two friends.

After hearing that, Lancer had done his own research, and found several other teachers, librarians, and nurses in town who had thought more than once of calling CPS. But, they mourned, the Fentons were a powerful family, despite being the town laughingstocks. Their ties to the local government had secured them the zoning rights to build their eyesore of a house. The money they made from their various patents paid half the taxes in town. Despite Miss Fenton’s social exile, she might easily have been another Miss Manson, or Miss Gray, or even a Miss Sanchez.

And instead, she was quiet, withdrawn, and showed a worrying number of signs of abuse.

Mr. Fenton—the younger—showed none of these. That was almost more worrying.

But most horrifying of all was the simple fact that the entire town knew of the Fentons’ fervor. The entire town knew how ruthlessly they pursued a ghost in their sights, however infrequently they caught it. The entire town knew how wrathful they were when Phantom escaped them.

And it wasn’t difficult to notice that on the days after Phantom escaped them, Danny tended to limp or favor her side or arm.

So, too late, Lancer had changed tactics, giving Miss Fenton more opportunities to make up missed exams, to accomplish her schoolwork in relative peace. Often, that meant dealing out detentions. Once, intervening more directly— Miss Fenton had been less combative since their tutoring sessions; it might have only been because of his sob story about his ‘sister’, but he’d take it.

But still, Miss Fenton continued to decline. The energy Miss Kaucie had mentioned now returned, but in the form of a quiet, relentless aggression that saw Miss Fenton taking the lead in her trio and challenging Miss Sanchez’ reign more often than not. She argued with teachers, got into physical altercations, and almost spent more time absent from class than in attendance.

And most infuriatingly of all, there was no proof. Miss Fenton was famously clumsy, though it had worsened significantly since the beginning of the attacks; surely her injuries were all accidental. Some girls were naturally inclined to thinness; surely Miss Fenton’s bony frame was simply due to that. Miss Sanchez proved herself vicious when there were no teachers present, the only sign Miss Fenton’s new bruises after they were the last out of the locker room, or a growing insistence on Miss Fenton’s part to step physically between Miss Sanchez and any other students she targeted. Surely she and her clique were the cause of Miss Fenton’s other injuries.

It didn’t matter how certain Lancer or the other teachers were. There was nothing they could do without evidence.

Interference was too likely to result in Miss Fenton—and possibly the younger Mister Fenton, as they’d grown notably closer over the last months—being critically wounded, or worse.

There was nothing he could do. Not unless Miss Fenton—miraculously—came to him or another authority for help.

It started suddenly. One second, she was making do and doing her best, the next, her former least favorite teacher was playing doctor and _not_ screaming, running, shooting, etc., etc., etc…

She’d freaked quietly out with Sam and Tuck the next morning, sitting in the bushes outside school. “What do I do— What if he recognizes me— Crap crap _crap—_ ”

“Dude, this is so bad,” Tucker held his cap in place with both hands, rocking slightly and wide-eyed, “what if he tells your _parents_?”

Sam stood abruptly, glaring at them both. “He’s not going to tell anyone anything, because he doesn’t know anything. Your own freaking family can’t recognize you, and it’s not like Mr. Lancer hasn’t seen both of you close up before.” She faltered, glare softening to a frown. “How’s your side?”

Blinking, Danny considered it. “…Okay. It’s not great, but I was able to stay ghostly all night, so I shouldn’t bleed through my shirt or anything.”

Sam nodded, frown easing as she came to the same conclusion Danny just had. “So he won’t have any reason to think that you’re injured.”

“Which would rule me out as a secret vigilante.” Breathing deeply—or as much as she could when she still had a freaking giant dent in her side—she nodded to herself. “Okay. Okay, I can do this. Business as usual.”

Tuck’s phone dinged— he’d set an alert for class way back before she’d, you know, _died_ , and none of them had the heart to change it now. Besides, times like this, it came in handy.

They’d rushed inside just in time not to be late, and of course, they had Lancer first thing. He stared sternly at them, but just handed out graded homework. Danny wasn’t surprised to see a C and a small ‘see me after class’ at the top of the second page.

She didn’t, as it turned out, as her ghost sense went off just as the bell rang and she had to run out and deal with the Box Ghost for the fourth time that week.

And it was Tuesday.

But she did go and see him after her last class of the day, a lie on the tip of her tongue about his message slipping her mind, but he hadn’t let her get a word out before giving her detention. That wasn’t surprising, either.

But when it had turned out she was the only one with detention that day, he’d sat in the desk beside hers and explained where she’d slipped up or forgotten some detail he’d specifically assigned.

That wasn’t surprising, either. It would have been, before, but he’d been using her detentions to effectively tutor her since that whole test fiasco. Only when she was the only kid there, unless the other one was Dash or Mikey or someone like that. If it was Tuck or Sam, he spent more time arguing with them than anything— Tucker because he hated the no-tech rule so much, Sam because she found the entire concept of detention archaic and ‘a symptom of patriarchy’.

Danny’d tried to explain that it did actually help to have extra time to finish her homework or ask Mr. Lancer for help—even with math and science and stuff—but she never listened.

It wasn’t so bad when Dash or Mikey were there, though. Not at the same time—Mikey was terrified of Dash and Dash always put on a tough face when there were other students there—but one at a time, it was fine. Mikey helped her with math and science at least as well as Mr. Lancer, and she was actually pretty good at helping him with history and english. Mr. Lancer spoke up if she messed up, but that wasn’t all that often.

She never got much homework done when Dash was there, but it was still nice. They hadn’t been friends, exactly, since Paulina moved to town and Dash decided he’d rather be popular than put up with Tuck’s geekiness. He’d still said hi to her in hallways and if they sat next to each other in class, for a couple years, but by the time they’d gotten to junior high, they’d barely been acquaintances. Then Sam had moved to town and decided Danny would be her friend, and for a while, she hadn’t even missed Dash.

She’d been missing him a lot more often since the accident. He wasn’t much of an abstract thinker. She was too much of one. Maybe they weren’t friends anymore, but he was still good at pulling her out of her head.

Mr. Lancer had to break up her and Dash’s arguments sometimes, but most of the time he just let them bicker. It wasn’t like they ever got as heated as Sam and… well, Sam and anyone.

That day, just her and Mr. Lancer in the classroom, she’d been distracted the entire time, half-convinced he was going to suddenly realize that he’d patched up her side just a few feet away, less than a day earlier.

But he hadn’t, and time had kept going on, like it always did.

Mr. Lancer patched her up like she was human, and time went on.

Sam got overshadowed by Kitty and started going out with Kwan for a few very confusing days, and time went on.

Danny died and woke up and never really felt alive, and time went on.

And she ended up going back to Mr. Lancer whenever she got so hurt that she didn’t think she’d be able to hide it from her family.

And then he insisted on her coming to see him even if he wasn’t at school, and suddenly she was sitting at his kitchen table with a mug of hot chocolate while he bandaged a burn on her forearm, and she was starting to recognize the people in the pictures on his wall.

She wasn’t sure how long it was before she noticed, but it had been long enough since she started coming to him for help that she knew what angle to hold the mug at to avoid the little chip in the brim, and she knew from the rattle in the walls that his heating was turning on, even though it was almost summer. “Do you have any siblings?”

He glanced at her, but kept his attention on her arm. “No, just me.”

“Hmm.”

He glanced at her again; she’d tried not to look confused, but apparently she hadn’t done it well enough. “Why?”

Regretting opening her mouth at all, she shrugged awkwardly. “I thought I saw a picture of a woman who looked like you on your desk at school.”

He snorted quietly, lips turning up. “Just a little motivation for my students.”

She thought about that for a second, but still couldn’t make sense of it. “What?”

“It’s me in a dress and wig.” Shocked, she just stared at him for a few moments; he shrugged, still smirking. “Amazing how much motivation a sob story can impart.”

Despite herself, she couldn’t help a tinge of hurt. “So what, you just lie to your students? And trick them into doing what you want them to?”

Looking up again, his smirk fell into a concerned frown; she wasn’t sure what her face looked like, but by the look on his, it wasn’t good. “I don’t do it for the joy of tricking them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, but you’re still lying to them.” Uncomfortably, she thought of all the times she’d lied to her parents. But that was different. She had to.

Sighing, Mr. Lancer fastened off the bandage and set the roll aside. “Do you know how rare it is for a bright student to reach their potential? Do you know what the key to real motivation is?”

That was his teacher-voice. She’d heard it often enough—as Phantom and Fenton—to know he did actually expect an answer. Mutely, she shook her head.

“For a person to simply decide that they want the result—whatever that is—enough to push through their obstacles, internal or external, and put in the effort to achieve their goal. That’s difficult enough for grown adults. In my experience, students tend not to have the focus, but in my experience, simply reaching the first milestone is often enough to help an individual come to the realization that they truly can accomplish even the loftiest goals if they persevere.” He shrugged again, expression a tad rueful. “If I knew a better way to push my students up to that first milestone, I’d use it, but so far, sympathy is the best tool I have.”

Watching him, she frowned. It still felt wrong, but at the same time, she remembered how shocked she’d been to actually get a high score on a test for once. How happy she’d been to realize she wasn’t an idiot— that dying hadn’t killed her brain cells, like she’d wondered a few times. How, for a few days, she’d actually thought that maybe she could still be an astronaut someday.

That had only lasted until the next time so many ghosts came out of the woodwork that she missed practically a full week of school.

She couldn’t help a quiet scoff, though.

“What?”

She shook her head, idly running her thumb over the chip in the mug. “They must be major dunces, if they need a stupid sob story to get them to just stop goofing off long enough to study.”

Wincing at the bitterness in her voice, she bit her tongue hard.

When he responded, Mr. Lancer’s voice was calmly even, the same as almost always when they were talking like this. “I don’t think so at all. I’ll admit that some of my students are unlikely to ever be a modern Shakespeare, but quite a few of them are very bright. They could do very well, if they would apply themselves properly.”

Tensing, she was careful to let go of the mug before she cracked it, or worse. She was still a wimp as a human, but as a ghost, she was strong enough to break more than a few of her family’s mugs by accident, and those were metal. “It’s not always that easy.”

She was half-expecting an argument, but he just sighed, an edge to the sound that had her tensing. Most of her parents’ worst fights had started with that edge. But he didn’t sound angry when he replied, or at least not angry with her. “I know. Some—”

Stopping, he grimaced, then stood and moved to the kitchen.

She followed cautiously, too curious to stay back and too wary to move fully into the room.

He started to open a cupboard, then sighed again and closed it, pouring himself a mug of hot chocolate instead and putting it in the microwave. The quiet hum almost drowned out his voice. “One of the hardest parts of this job is to know that something is wrong, and to be able to do nothing about it.”

Danny frowned.

He didn’t look at her, voice growing even fainter. “And one of the worst parts is to know that any intervention could only make things unimaginably worse.”

That, Danny understood, thinking of the time Dash had written an essay in the fifth grade about loneliness. It had made her cry. It had gotten the teacher to call his parents. He’d practically bitten Danny’s head off every time she asked what they’d said about it.

And he’d limped for three days.

“So what do you do when that’s going on?”

She thought it was still going on.

Sighing, he pulled his mug out and turned to face her, looking old enough to be her grandfather, when he wasn’t even as old as her parents, she thought. “Hope that my students trust me enough to ask for help when they need it. Offer help when I can.”

She frowned. “That’s it?”

He just looked more sad. She hadn’t thought that was possible. “If there’s no proof, if nothing can be proven, my student will be the only one who suffers. And very often, if a student doesn’t agree to tell the truth about what happens to them at home, they lie to anyone who tries to help.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Too late, she remembered the times when she’d been little and her teachers had asked why her parents were never in the pictures she drew, and her parents had been fighting again and she’d been so scared to lose them that she’d made herself start drawing them in even though they were never actually there. Just when they weren’t building something, or testing something, or designing something.

To that, Mr. Lancer smiled, the smile somehow more mournful than his gentle frown had been. “When all one knows is fear and pain, it’s nearly impossible to imagine that things could be different. Often, one chooses painful familiarity, rather than a nebulous unknown.”

That, she understood.

Unable to hold his eyes, she ducked her head, picking at the chip in the mug.

Shaking her head, she set the mug aside. “I should go.” He started to say something; she cut him off, forcing a smile though she couldn’t meet his eyes. “You fixed my arm up, and you probably have a ton of homework to grade and stuff.”

He just sighed. “Don’t put too much strain on that arm for a day or two.”

She nodded, mentally amending that to ‘several hours or so’. “Definitely not. Gotta patrol, thanks again!”

She was gone before he could say anything, zipping in a quick semicircle until she got back to the Fenton Works.

For a second, she just stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the door to the kitchen. Her Mom was talking to her new invention as she worked on it, like usual— muttering about what it was going to do, grumbling about how there was no reason it should be lopsided when she’d just finished cutting it a few hours earlier. Her Dad was happily and loudly—and obliviously—talking at her from the lab, detailing ideas for new weapons.

Muffled Bach was coming from Jax’s room, the only sure way he had to drown them out.

Silently, Danny padded into her own room and closed the door, sinking down to sit against it with her arms around her knees.

She could still hear them. She’d be able to hear them from her bed. She’d be able to hear them in her sleep.

They were talking about ways to kill, maim, or capture her, and the only way she knew to avoid it was to not be in the house.

But she was tired, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a full night’s sleep, and it was too late to go to Tuck’s or Sam’s. Sighing, she grabbed her blanket and a pillow and flew up to the Ops Center. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but she wouldn’t have nightmares about being vivisected. Probably.

Settling onto the cold floor, she huddled under the blanket and buried her face in her pillow.

She should have stayed at Lancer’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this ended up mostly being a character study, but I kind of don't mind.  
> Lots of headcanons in here, and also a lot borrowed from other fics. Honestly not sure which parts are which at this point.  
> Anyway, I also have a Batfam/DP crossover that I'm working on that I can post the first chapter of, but honestly, only if there's interest at this point. It's Damian&Dany friendship fluff, mostly, so if that's something you'd like to see, let me know!  
> Увидимся!


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